


The Hunt and the Fall

by Taz_Eichel



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Butt Plugs, Caning, Come Marking, Dom/sub, Face-Fucking, Humiliation, M/M, Masochism, Mentions of past abuse, Overstimulation, Punishment, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Oral Sex, Sadism, Spanking, Subdrop, Torture, Touch-Starved, Whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:33:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28634055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taz_Eichel/pseuds/Taz_Eichel
Summary: There's a bounty on Boba Fett's head. When Din Djarin comes to collect, he finds himself in an unexpected position.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Boba Fett
Comments: 93
Kudos: 302





	1. The Climb

**Author's Note:**

> Be forewarned: gratuitous use of Mando'a ahead, for all you linguaphiles out there. Translations included in text.
> 
> UPDATE: Labels and Archive Warnings have been updated based on the contents of Chapter 3, for elements of non-con and violence.

There was no satisfaction when the job was finished. He should have been content- grateful even- that his charge was finally safe. But after months of sleeping with one eye open, a protective instinct overtaking predatory for the first time, restful slumber and his old routine did not come easy. Every night since, he would drift, somewhere between sleep and awake, yet whenever he opened his eyes he was left with the same profound emptiness. The child was gone. And after all he had sacrificed, so was he. 

He had tried and failed to hand off the darksaber to Bo-Katan; it hung on his belt, beating against his beskar plating like a death knell with every step. Although he was tempted to leave it in the Outland TIE Fighter he traded for some Wookie shuk'la trash those scrapyard traders called a gunship, he couldn't bring himself to part with the relic. He had disgraced his people enough.

Without quest or purpose, he returned to his trade. Bounty hunting put credits in his pocket and fuel in his ship. Occasionally, it would even put food in his belly, if he could remember to eat it. He would take almost any offer if it paid well, but selected conditions that stated 'alive or dead' more often than not. And more often than not, he would bring them back dead. 

It wasn't long before one such job steered him back to Tatooine. He punched in the coordinates on the ship panel, teetering forwards on the edge of the seat to reach. Wookie tech, he grumbled with disdain, yanking the throttle back and gripping onto the metal edge of the control board as the strength of the engines threatened to slam him back into the chair. He'd been unprepared the first time; deft hands that once held the controls so expertly on the Crest left grasping at air as he was flung back, head ringing as his helmet struck the barely padded steel of the pilot's seat. Flying a Wookie ship made him feel like a kid trying to run in his father's boots. 

It was easier to tell himself that the tension in his neck was due to the whiplash, and that the helmet sat heavier because he'd found the gravity controls broken when he'd attempted to adjust them for his human body. He preferred for his feet to feel grounded on the floor instead of weightless, so that was the trade-off as he set the mechanism. After the child had left, he had fitted the helmet back in place, resolute that he no longer had a reason to remove it. Bo-Katan and the others may have scoffed at him, but he was convinced that he did not care. He was raised to follow his Creed, even if he had momentarily forsaken it. 

He docked in Mos Eisley, tossing a sack of credits to Peli Motto without so much as a word initially. She scowled at him, “Where's the kid?” When he glanced back, he said simply, “Gone. Safe.”

She flicked through the credits as if she hadn't heard him and waved him off. “Yes, yes. No droids. It'll be ready in 48 hours.”

“I'll need a speeder.”

Peli Motto glared, “After what you did to the last one?” 

When he didn't respond, she pointed to the shed. “Take it. But you owe me extra.”

The cantina was bustling when he arrived, a sign that prosperity had struck- at least temporarily- for the desolate sand city. He scanned the room, identifying his contact in the back by a window crusted over with filth. She was human, wrapped in swaths of cloth from head to foot. It was finer material, despite the discoloration and wear from the desert sun. He made his way over, not caring about the eyes that drifted his way or the gap in the crowd that opened for him with every step. 

“You have the plans?” he asked, taking a seat across the table from the woman. She looked at him directly, as if locking his gaze behind the helmet's dark visor. 

“Do you have the credits?” she countered. 

This was a costly trip, enough to nearly clean him out, but he didn't hesitate to set the money on the table. If he was successful, it would pay for itself several times over. 

The woman pushed the holodisc towards him and he checked it briefly before pocketing it and handing over the cash. Satisfied, he got up to leave.

At one point in his life, this would have been the moment when someone would challenge him. A thug would approach, set on earning a name for themselves by killing a Mandalorian, thinking that they could trade a few blows and walk away with a beskar trophy. Although he was always ready for the possibility of a fight, he had not encountered one unprompted in a long time. And so he stepped out of the cantina with a nagging feeling in his gut. Had he finally commanded the respect that was due to his people or was he no longer worthy of a challenge? 

The speeder bike sputtered as he kicked it to a start and he took off into the desert. A glance at the sky told him that he would make it to Anchorhead just after nightfall. Not ideal. Stealth would be needed to complete the hit successfully, but he balked at relying on the darkness to complete it. Darkness was unreliable, a tool for incompetents and cowards. His other option was to camp out in the desert mid-way, which would delay him significantly and leave him open to the risks of the wilderness. Darkness it is, then. 

He reached the stone outcropping just outside of Anchorhead and slammed the speeder to a halt. The holodisc identified several possible entrances into the palace: the hangar, the tunnels, and the tower. The hanger would be monitored and manned, likely with droids, so he had little consideration for this option. The tunnels were an unpredictable labyrinth. He may have had some time to spare before sunrise, but did not care much for getting lost- or caved in in the event of a quake. 

The tower loomed overhead, a nine-storey monolithic shadow in the night. He crept up the side of the stone outcropping, the tech in his visor picking up footholds in the crags. The sides of the tower were worn from years of onslaught from the sand, and were not smooth as they had appeared from a distance. He picked a warped edge of stone about a dozen feet or so from where he was crouched in the rock, aimed, and fired his whipcord launcher. It seemed to hold when he tested it with his weight, and with that he began his ascent. 

Around mid-way up the tower, he realized that he could not rely on his makeshift grappling hook. The ledges that remained were sparse and uneven. He found himself wishing he had forged wrist blades he could use to get a better hold on the stone. 

Osik, he swore, digging his fingers into the grit and hauling himself up. This was going to take longer than expected. By the time he reached the top, his fingers were numb and his muscles were screaming.   
His armour was his second skin, moulded to his body and worn for so long that he didn't even feel it anymore. He felt a wave of betrayal that the climb had turned it to lead. 

The top of the tower was ringed with windows, likely aesthetic since the droid operating the comms in the tower dome had no reason to look out onto the vast sands. After the excruciating climb, he made short work of breaking through one of the small windows and dismantling the droid before it could sound an alarm. There was no risk of a fight; the tower was for leveraging the comms networks and not for the protection of the palace. No sane person would have chosen it as an entry point. He took a moment to catch his breath and stretch his limbs, joints cracking. Then he checked the holodisc again: nine storeys back down and several corridors yet. 

As he made his way down the spiral stairs, he was reminded unexpectedly of his home underground with the Children of the Watch. The same dim light greeted him and he found himself stepping just as carefully as he did as an adiik. In the Tribe, leaving the covert without permission as an adult who had sworn the Creed was cause for banishment. Sneaking out as an adiik was not treated nearly as harshly, but the punishment was severe. He could still feel the sting of the switch on his skin from the first time, a simple warning, and then the cut of the cane for each time after. The draw of the outside world had been strong- to see faces unobscurred as his parents' had been- and stepping quietly had been a long and hard lesson. 

He kept a hand pressed against the darksaber, not poised to use it, but instead to silence its tolling against his thigh. With his other hand, he unhooked the spear from his back and held it at the ready. At the bottom of the staircase, he made short work of downing a droid guard, catching the heavy steel to muffle the fall. He moved on. 

The schematics he had been provided were bare bones, and he had to backtrack once when a corridor had not been properly marked, but the intel appeared sufficient. Few guards flanked the halls at this hour of the night, and when he did encounter them, they went down easy. By the time he made it to his destination, he was feeling edgy; overconfidence was unwise. 

The chambers were locked, as anticipated. He broke the side panel and pulled at the tangle of wires, identifying and untwisting the primary cable. Careful not to short it out, he removed the end and looped it back to reattach to another node on the base. The door slid open. It sounded unnaturally loud in the silent hallway, and he took a deep breath before entering the room, certain that it had woken his target. 

Of that, he should not have been concerned. His target was already awake, sitting in the sparse dimly lit entryroom as if he had been interrupted in meditation. He was clad in armour that had been around for lifetimes, dents from blaster fire revealing bright silver beneath the green and red paint. As the door slid shut, the dull thud of iron told him he was locked in. 

“Din Djarin.” Boba Fett rose from the floor. “Mhi ven'akaani ra mhi ven'jorhaa. Gar gaanade.” [We will fight or we will talk. You choose.]

Fett spoke Mando'a like he was dropping beskar with each syllable. There were so few who spoke it anymore, it felt too close, too familial. A wave of anger passed over Din unexpectedly. He stepped forwards, spear ready, and answered in Basic.“We fight.” 

He launched himself forwards, thrusting the spear towards his target's neck before swiping the shaft downwards to cut under his legs. Fett manoeuvred around the blows, dodging the stab and jumping easily over the the attack. For such a broad man, he moved with careful grace, each step purposeful. Even though the green and red helmet hid his face, Din felt as if Fett was getting some enjoyment out of the encounter, as if they were sparring and not in a deadly duel. Even with a blaster ready at his hip, Fett did not reach for it, instead drawing Din closer and forcing him into a tighter stance. Din continued his assault, driving forward and making contact with the plating on Fett's shoulder. The spear point scratched deeply into the green paint, but missed its mark- the gap between the pauldron and breastplate- by less than an inch. 

Rather than retreat from the force of the blow, Fett stepped forwards, grasping the spear shaft in both hands and wrenching it down and over, levering the end upwards to collide with the side of Din's helmet. His ears rang from the impact of beskar on beskar, stunning him for an instant before he activated his flamethrowers. Fett remained unfazed, his grip on the spear strong. 

Din was regretting not entering the palace by way of the tunnels. His arms were weak from the climb, and even the surge of adrenaline through his body was not enough to maintain control of the weapon in his hands. Almost as quickly as the fight had begun, his spear was taken, with what appeared to be little effort on Fett's part. Din was shoved back, empty-handed and astonished as Fett swung the blade around expertly as if it was a simple bō staff. 

“Nar dralshy'a, ad'ika,” Fett chided, waving him forward. “Tug'yc.” [Try harder, child. Again.]

When Din pulled his pistol, he could have sworn that Fett tutted at him disapprovingly, but it was quickly lost in the sound of blaster fire. For what he seemed to lack in hand-to-hand combat against Fett, he more than made up for in marksmanship. Several shots connected, knocking Fett back as he took the hits. But still he advanced, following Din before he could take cover around the room. Soon Din was facing the spear point himself, forced to dodge and duck as he attempted to release his arsenal on his target. It was no use; Fett's armour held and the man remained standing. 

Din continued to fight, limbs feeling drugged as fatigue began to set in. There were several openings left in his attempted counter-attacks that Fett seemed to ignore, pushing him back until he struck the rough stone wall. Then the blade was at Din's throat, and he knew that it was over. His pulse beat against the metal, counting down his last seconds to live. 

“Ke ceta,” Fett ordered, the pressure of the spear unwavering. [Literal: (Order) Kneel in submission. Contextual: (Order) Submit] When Din didn't respond, Fett pushed, the blade cutting through the protective gorget over his throat and into his skin. “Ke gar jorhaa'i.” [(Order) Speak]. 

“Yes,” Din growled. His blaster was on the floor several paces away, so he opened his palms to show that they were empty. Fett did not drop the spear. A bead of blood trickled down the tip. Still, he waited. Din let out a breath, confused and trying not to swallow the lump building in his throat should it cause the spear to puncture his windpipe. The words came out ragged. “I submit. 'Lek. Ni ceta, ok?” [Yes. I submit.]

“Jate.” [Good] Fett released the pressure but kept the spear at a close distance. “Now remove your armour. Your vambraces, your belt, your boots. Set them on the floor.” 

He hesitated, evaluating his options as a heat began to creep up the back of his neck. Seeing no alternatives that didn't end in his death, Din felt his body move in slow motion to comply, starting with one arm and then the other, dropping each plated piece with a solid thunk on the stone floor. Then he moved to his legs, unfastening the greaves and bracing himself against the wall as he lifted first one foot and then the other to remove his boots. The rest fell systematically: the cape, the belt, the tassets, and breastplate, until he was left standing in his kute suit and stocking feet, left only with his helmet. 

Dressed as he was, he felt bare. Embarrassment flamed over his skin, and he felt his hands twitch under Fett's gaze. 

Satisfied, Boba Fett removed his own helmet, revealing the face marked with scars that had been seared into Din's memory since the moment he saw the legendary bounty hunter. 

“Jate'shya, ad'ika.” [Better, child] 

Din felt rage build in his stomach at the infantilization. He hadn't been called ad'ika since long before he was sworn in to the Way of the Mandalore. Hearing it now, from someone so far removed from his kin, who had beaten him to the point of exhaustion, got under his skin in a way that Din could barely control. He tried to steady his shaking by bracing himself harder against the wall, praying that the stone would consume him before he said something he might regret. 

“Udesii, ad'ika. [Calm down, child] Now we've finished fighting, so now we talk. Tell me why you're here.” Fett looked him over as if analyzing every sign of his discomfort. Overall, he seemed unperturbed by the intrusion into his quarters. 

In a further attempt to calm himself, Din glanced around the room, taking in his surroundings for the first time. The quarters themselves were palatial, but the decor was not. The room was entirely stone, roughly chiselled in the places where feet had not smoothed it to a slick tile. It looked to be what might have once been a receiving room. There was a large rug in the center, where Fett had been sitting, and some furniture pushed into dark corners. The walls had the remnants of tapestries roughly torn from their brackets. In the dim light, he could make out at least three entryways into adjoining rooms. Without seeing the chambers entirely, Din was sure that they were larger than his entire covert had been back on Navarro. 

Fett tapped him suddenly with the spear, making Din jump. 

“There's a bounty on your head,” Din responded. “Ninety thousand credits.” 

“I've always had a bounty on my head,” Fett huffed. “Why are you here now?” 

Was he laughing? Helmet or no helmet, Din found he had trouble reading the man. His scarred expression remained stolid. Din shook his head, “That's the reason.”

“Jehaat. Ne shab'rud'ni, ad'ika.” [Lie/untruth. Don't mess with me, child.] The spear was raised back to his neck. 

The metallic tang of blood was fresh in his mouth. Din realized he'd bitten hard on his lip. “You dishonour me.” 

Fett shook his head. This time, Din knew he was laughing. “You dishonour yourself, kid. You need no help from me.” The weight of Fett's gaze was unnerving as it passed him over from head to foot, sizing him up. “I should whip some sense into you. Your Way should make you strong, yet when you step off the path, you are weak. You are lost. Mando'ad ori'shya beskar'gam. [A Mandalorian is more than his armour.] Even a child should know this.” 

Din was speechless. He wanted so badly for the words to be true and yet he still balked at the thought that the Way of the Mandalore was not the only way one could be Mandalorian. 

“You came to me and not to Bo-Katan. Why is this? She could have told you the same.” Boba Fett's forehead creased with the question, pulling at his scarred skin. 

“You are not from Mandalore.” As he said it, Din realized that this was exactly the reason he had come. He needed assurance that an outsider could be Mandalorian by something other than birthright- and something other than a Way he had learned to be nothing more than false preachings, scorned by the rest of his people. Fett was neither, and yet he was still Mando'ad. [Child of Mandalore.]

“Ah.” Fett nodded, eyes hard. He drew the tip of the spear behind Din's shoulder, prying him off the wall and pulling him forward in a sharp motion. Din stumbled, legs unsteady after fixing himself against the stone for support. The events of the night had drained him more than he realized, and even without his armour his body felt like dead weight. 

Fett directed him through the corridor on the left side of the receiving room, following as close as a shadow. When Din paused at the doorway, he could feel the cold metal of his spear between his shoulder blades. He pressed the button on the side panel, finding the door unlocked, and stepped into a subterranean rotunda. The door slid shut and Fett punched in a code once they stepped through, sealing them inside. Din nearly tripped as the floor gave way to a short stairway leading down into the circular center of the room, ringed with a ledge for sitting. This room, like the first, was dark, lit by a series of lights around the ceiling that cast a muted glow. There was furniture built into the walls and ledges: shelving and racks obscured by a grey gauze. As his eyes passed over the room, Din saw that on nearly every surface, the stone was studded with thick rings, some ominously laced with heavy bronzed chains. 

Jabba's penchant for holding captive beasts and slaves was renowned, and it was very clear to Din that this room had been used for the crime lord's indulgence in the hobby. He started to protest, confused by his surroundings and what they might mean. Of one thing he was very certain: he was trapped.


	2. The Descent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pain and pleasure in equal measure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE: Labels and Archive Warnings have been updated based on the contents of Chapter 3, for elements of non-con and violence.

“K'udesii.” [(Order) Calm down.] Boba Fett gave him a swift shove with the shaft of the spear, the metal connecting harshly with his shoulder blades. “Center of the room. Ke ceta.” [(Order) Kneel in submission.]

Din was forced forwards until he stepped foot in the middle of the rotunda. His thick bodysuit, a protective layer against the usual friction of his armour, did not seem to stall the bruises he could already feel forming under his skin. A glance at the thick steel ring in the floor by his socked feet sent a chill up his spine; when he set out to kill Fett, he did not expect that this is where he would end up. 

Saying that the night had not gone as planned would be an understatement. After travelling for hours across the desert, climbing a nine-storey comms tower into the impenetrable palace, and then fighting one of the most skilled bounty hunters in the entire galaxy in hand-to-hand combat had left him enervated. Prior, he had spent months unable to sleep, devoid of feeling and purpose, and now he was on the brink of collapse. 

A wave of betrayal passed over him as his knees gave way, hitting the stone floor stiffly. 

“Jate [Good.],” Fett stated. “Now, this will be simple: Ni jorhaa'i ke'gycse bal gar shekemi. Tion gar suvari?” [I speak orders and you follow. You understand?] 

A similar command had been given when he came under the care of the Children of the Watch. He had been told that control over the Tribe was essential to their protection, to the preservation of their community. As an adiik he had followed, hoping to find the family he had lost. And in some ways he had- he had been surrounded by brothers and sisters, faceless and cold and unwavering, and now gone- all it had cost him was his sense of self. Could he afford to lose what little he had left? 

Din gripped his hands in tight fists, his throat rough as he swallowed past the lump that hadn't yet dissipated. It was as if all the words he wanted to say continued to pile up until he choked on them. “Nu'ni lise.” [I can't.] 

“Gar lise, ad'ika.” [You can, child.] Fett had moved to stand facing Din, and now reached to tilt Din's visor upwards so he would meet his eyes. “Remove your gloves. Palms to the sky.”

It appeared that the old bounty hunter intended to make good on his threat. Din Djarin tugged at the fingers of his thick gloves, something akin to numbness settling over his body. Fett watched until Din had uncovered his left hand, baring tanned flesh marred with callouses and scars. Fett appeared content that his instruction was being followed, and he moved to the rotunda's edge to deposit the beskar spear and retrieve another object. When he returned to face Din once more, Din had dropped his gloves on the floor beside him, hands hanging limply at his sides. Fett had selected a length of braided leather from the ledge, with a stiff, thick handle and corded tail split several times over. 

“Ke gaane laamyc.” [(Order) Hands up.] 

Din was surprised that the heat radiating throughout his body had not extended to his fingertips, which felt cold and detached as he raised his hands outwards to Fett, palms exposed. 

Fett nodded approvingly. “Jate. You will keep them raised until I tell you to lower them. Do not bother counting- I will decide when this is finished. Tion gar suvari?”

The word was lead in his mouth. “'Lek.” [Yes.]

Despite the explanation of what was to take place, the first strike came as a shock. The leather seared across his palms like metal straight from a forge. It knocked the breath out of his lungs in one gasp that rasped out of his helmet's vocoder. His fingers trembled from the impact. 

Before Din could even think about dropping his hands in an attempt to protect his sensitive flesh, Fett struck him again. And again. White lines had risen on his skin rimmed in angry red where the leather had made blistering contact. It was nothing akin to the switch beatings Din had received as a child; Fett was unrestrained in his delivery and targeted in his method. Din found himself once more biting down severely on his lip, tasting blood as he muffled a cry. Although he could see that his hands remained intact, Din felt like his bones had been shattered. The entirety of his upper body ached with the effort of keeping them raised, and he found that the only thing holding him up was sheer force of will. 

Fett had instructed him not to count, but Din was sure that they were reaching close to twenty lashes. By the eighteenth, Din's breath shuddered through him and he knew that he was crying freely. The gorget around his throat was damp and starting to chafe beneath his helmet. 

“Ori'jate.” [Very good.] Fett stated, lowering the whip. “K'udesii.” [Order: Relax/be at peace.]

“Vor entye.” [Thank you.] Din said it instinctively- words he was required to say ceremoniously after receiving punishment from one of his elders in the Tribe. They had called it a lesson, instilling in him that he should always be grateful to learn, no matter how they chose to deliver their teachings. He noticed Boba Fett's posture change, as if he was possibly surprised, or perhaps unfamiliar with the ritual. Din paid little attention. 

With a deep breath, he let his hands fall, allowing the blood to rush down his limbs in a tidal wave of fire. The worst of it was never the beating; with raised arms his circulation was slower, naturally lessening the pain. No, the worst was when he was given back control, when his body was once again his own and no longer at the mercy of another. It was then that the awareness of what had been done to him engulfed his senses and flooded him with feelings he was helpless to guard against. The sensations were tumultuous: agony and agonizing relief in equal parts. Din continued to breathe deeply, revelling in it. 

Din did not bother to reach for his gloves. His hands were swollen and quaking and he doubted that he had the coordination to try to fit them back on, despite the lingering anxiety that they were bare in front of another person. He stared at the digits in his lap, taking in each crooked, spasming finger as if they belonged to someone else. Some curled inwards, trying to crawl into the scalding weight of his palms, while others pulled desperately away from his hands as if the joints were caustic. All of them were distorted and blurry through his tears. Din was aware that Fett was staring at him, watching him as he analyzed his hands and re-positioned them on his lap. It had been many years, but Din found this moment after being beaten hauntingly familiar. Din shifted at the arousal building in his gut, disconcerted. He had started to feel light-headed, almost like he was floating, and he was hyper-aware of the harsh fabric of his suit scraping against his skin, constricting and strangling him. 

“You did well.” The words in Basic sounded foreign after being taken back to the language of his upbringing. Din wavered as his brain slowly deciphered it, his body beginning to list as if drunk. 

Boba Fett steadied him with a firm hand, causing Din to hiss in a gasp and wrench away. His skin was aflame with sensation, and it felt like Fett had just stabbed him with a fistful of needles. 

“Ke nu'tigaanu,” Din slurred. [(Order) Don't touch me.]

Fett did not remove his hand. “Ne'johaa! [Shut up/be quiet!] I'll do as I like,” he growled. 

Din sensed that Fett had crouched beside him, the man's hulking form even more imposing now that it was in close proximity. The steady grasp on his shoulder remained. Suddenly, cool air hit Din's neck as Fett unfastened his suit's collar from beneath his helmet. Rough fingers invaded the gap in the thick fabric, pressing firmly around the side of Din's throat, cradling his neck. 

The intrusion was unexpected and in Din's state it rendered him immobile. His skin had not been touched by another person- not even accidentally- in years. Despite the threat behind Fett's words, the contact felt strangely affectionate. 

“When was the last time you were whipped?” Fett asked, swiping his thumb over Din's pulse. 

A tremor went down Din's spine. He knew exactly when- he had replayed it in his head more times than he would care to admit to himself. It was right before he was sworn in to the Way of the Mandalore, as an adult and finally a warrior. “Many cycles ago,” he responded. 

“Naysol.” [Too many.] Fett's voice was close; the words felt as if they were spoken directly into Din's ear, in spite of his helmet. 

“Ret.” [Perhaps.] The word left his lips before his brain told him he should be ashamed. What he had just subjected himself to was appalling and how he felt about it was unfathomable. Shouldn't he have fought to the death rather than put himself in this position? He had removed his beskar- bared himself- and exposed his skin, for what exactly? Sure, he finally felt something other than emptiness, but it was momentary, already disappearing, and he still wasn't whole. His thoughts were gradually becoming more coherent, but he was disconcerted by what they were telling him. Could he really have sought this out? Needed it in some way? Belatedly, he tried to pull away from Fett's grasp. 

Fett clamped down on the nape of Din's neck, grounding him. “We'll fix that, don't you worry, ad'ika.” 

Din shook his head, uneasy. “I don't want...” 

“Bal'ban, nu gar copaani, gar liniba.” [Indeed, you don't want, you need.] Fett chuckled, as if reading his mind. Din felt the man's hand shift from his shoulder to move purposefully down the front of his torso, passing over his chest and stomach to palm at the hardness between his legs. He shuddered at the touch, coarse fabric scraping against the sensitive flesh. Fett gave the back of Din's neck a warning squeeze. “Be still.” 

At first, Din watched as Fett unfastened the front of his suit trousers, his stomach roiling at the other man's touch as he fought internally on whether to bolt or succumb. But before he could come to a decision, Fett made it for him, wrapping a fist tightly around Din's cock. Fett's hand engulfed his shaft, large calloused fingers handling him with the same adept precision that he had applied when handling the spear in combat. He was adroit, but not gentle, and Din shut his eyes, leaning into each rough stroke. This time, Fett did not chastise his movement. Instead, he quickened his pace, growling praise in Mando'a.

“Jate. Ori jate. Ni gana gar.” [Good. Very good. You are mine; Literal: I possess you.] 

The words burned, scalding his pride as he came with a harsh cry. Still, Fett continued rub him until he had nothing left to release, the last bit of cum dribbling out over the top of the man's fist. Din felt wrung out and raw, wanting nothing more than to be free of the friction he had just moments before craved. Fett's calloused fingers scraped like sand down his length, taking great care to rasp over the sensitive tip. 

“Stop,” he croaked, struggling in Fett's grasp. “Gev! Gev gedet'ye!” [Stop! Stop please!] 

Fett loosened his grip and then let him go, taking a moment to study his work. Even though Din was still fully outfitted in his suit, he felt completely and utterly defiled. He looked away, disgusted when Fett wiped off his hand on Din's thigh, staining his trousers. 

“That wasn't so bad, was it?” Fett patted him on the shoulder. Then he tucked Din's flaccid cock back into his suit with surprising gentleness, fastening it closed. “Now thank me again, ad'ika, and this wont be the last time.”

“Shabuir.” [(Extreme insult)] Din muttered, shame stoking his outrage. It was presumptuous and insulting that Fett would think that he would put himself in this position again. A shock of pain went through Din's hands, shooting up his wrists when he tried to move his fingers- a reminder of what he had endured. He would not be forgetting this encounter, that was for certain. But was that all he wanted- just a memory? 

Without warning, Fett stood, nearly causing Din to topple as he lost the support at the back of his neck. Din had not realized how much he had been relying on the other man to stay upright. He regained his balance, but not his composure. Fett had turned to walk away, making good on the unspoken promise that this would be the end. Din couldn't handle it. Although Fett had been presumptuous, he had been absolutely and distressingly correct. 

“Vor entye.” [Thank you.] The air flooded from Din's chest as he let out a breath he'd been unaware he had been holding. He glanced over at Fett, who had stopped in his tracks. A sharp grin spread across the master hunter's face. 

“Ba'gedet'ye, ad'ika.” [You're welcome, child.] Fett responded. He stepped towards one of the racks along the wall and drew aside the gauze, revealing several lengths of bronzed shackles. Din watched from where he knelt as Fett selected a pair with a short, chained tether. They looked both crude and ornate, remnants from a rich but unsophisticated past. 

“This isn't what we agreed.” Din commented as Fett returned with the bonds. “I'm not-”

“A slave?” Fett cut him off. “No, you're not. Now give me your hands. Ke'jiila.” [(Order): Right now.]

Din Djarin did as he was told, apprehensive as Fett first looped the chain through the thick steel ring between Din's knees before cuffing one of the shackles around his left wrist and bolting it closed. It was secured in such a way that there was still a small gap between the metal and Din's wrist; not enough room to pull free, but enough that there would be no undue pressure on his inflamed hands. The metal glinted reddish gold in the dim light, almost blending into his tanned skin. Once the second shackle was fitted to his right wrist, Din began to feel the weight of it. The tether was short, only about two hand spans apart, and it felt like it was pulling him into the ground. He kneeled, hunched and unsure what would follow. 

Fett placed a hand on top of Din's helmet, letting the gravity of it communicate his authority. “Mesh'la.” [Beautiful.] He remarked. “Udesii jii. [Find respite now.] You're going to regret that insult tomorrow.”


	3. The Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boba Fett delivers his punishment as promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE: Labels and Archive Warnings have been updated based on the contents of this Chapter. Non-con elements and violence contained herein. 
> 
> Thank you to the commenters who have flagged concern- your candor is truly appreciated.

It was the first time he had rested fully in months, his body too weary to let disturbed thoughts toss and turn him throughout the night. After Boba Fett had left him chained to the center of the floor of the eerie stone rotunda, Din had collapsed, prostrate and curling inwards around his beaten hands. He couldn't bring himself to think about what had just happened, nor what was inevitably to come. Instead, he let the thrum of the blood pulsing under his damaged skin lull him to sleep. 

When he woke, he was greeted by the same dim emptiness that had surrounded him since he had entered the room, unsure whether he had been out for hours or days. His head felt stuffed with cotton fibre, his mouth dry as if he had swallowed the Tatooinian sand from the desert just beyond the chamber walls. The other night, he had felt drunk on the pain, delirious as it encompassed him, and now- well, now he was dealing with the unavoidable hangover. 

With surprise, Din found that a canteen of water had been placed within reach. And next to it, some food: a crumbly piece of round dark bread common to Tatooine, and a strangely shapen fruit with a thick rind. Glancing around, he saw that he was alone, and so he made short work of it all, raising his helmet just enough to uncover his mouth. 

Once he was finished, Din pulled on the shackles that encircled his wrists, grimacing as the heels of his swollen palms caught on the edges. He tried to stretch out the tension in his neck and shoulders, but was only partially successful. The short tether did not allow him to stand- it barely allowed him to kneel upright- so instead he twisted to lie on his back, lengthening his spine and fanning out his toes as he extended his legs. He lay this way for a while, studying the domed ceiling before once more scanning the room for any hint of what may happen to him. 

There were sturdy metal racks affixed to the stone walls, studded with thick brackets and loops that matched the shackles around his wrists. Additionally, there were several odd structures- benches or thin tables- that Din very much doubted were used for their traditional purposes. The rotunda's ledge looped around the subterranean gallery, seating enough for a small audience (or formerly a large Hutt, Din grimaced), that was mottled with objects that were just out of sight. 

Din tensed as someone entered the room, and he forced his body back into the kneeling position which allowed him- at the very least- to face his captor. His heart rate quickened as Boba Fett approached. The renowned bounty hunter was outfitted in his usual green-plated attire, imposing form covered in all but his helmet. Under one arm, he carried a bundle of black fabric. This, he set on the ledge before treading closer, boots solid as they struck the stone floor. 

“Tion gar nuhoyi'ori, ad'ika?” [Did you sleep well, child?] As he had done before, Fett placed a firm hand on top of Din's head. Din was rankled by the reminder that Fett was unequivocally in charge, as if the bonds themselves were meaningless and that all that kept him down was the submission demanded by this man's presence. The thought that he could be crushed on the spot flitted through his mind, leaving him abashed. It was, of course, impossible, but that did not stop the feeling from eating at his gut. 

“'Lek.” [Yes.] Din kept his body still, refusing to fidget. 

Fett nodded approvingly. “Jate. [Good.] Show me your hands.”

Din reluctantly proffered his maimed hands, palms upwards. Although the thought of the whipping sent a warmth down his body, he was not keen on repeating it so soon. His fingers trembled, despite his efforts to keep them steady. Useless, he thought bitterly, wishing it was as easy to reject his hands as it was to remove his gloves. Fett took Din's hands in his own and inspected the striped flesh, flattening each of the fingers one by one, pulling the inflamed skin taught until it turned bone white. Din hissed in a gasp and looked up sharply, meeting Fett's dark gaze. 

Fett was unperturbed by Din's reaction. The hunter's eyes glinted and the corners of his mouth had twitched as if Din truly was prey about to be devoured. “Ori'jate. Gar cuyi kotyc. Ori shukala be gar.” [Very good. You are strong. Much of you to conquer.]

The floor was a solid distraction from the turmoil brewing inside of Din. He stared down at it, taking in the grooves where the stone had been violently scraped, the unnatural striations stark against the otherwise unblemished rock. Around the base of the steel ring to which he was bound, there were a series of vein-like scratches, reminding Din that he was not the only living soul to have knelt in this place. He wondered who had made them and why- and whether he would leave his mark as well. 

Fett was finished with his examination. He tilted the bottom of Din's helmet upwards, startling him out of his reverie. “Now to get you cleaned up. There is a room, just there,” Fett motioned across the rotunda to a small entryway that Din had not noticed. “You take the clothes on the ledge and you get yourself ready. Tion gar suvari?” [Do you understand?] 

Din's brow creased underneath his helmet. The words made sense, but the lingering threat Fett had issued the night before made it impossible to decipher his intentions. Still, what choice did he have? 

“Ni suvari.” [I understand.] He confirmed. 

“Jate. You will have fifteen minutes. Meh ni n'yaimpa, ven ni ora'kayi.” [If you do not return, I will hunt you.] 

Fett unbolted the chain from Din's shackles, letting it fall to the floor with a sharp clang. However, he had left the cuffs on Din's wrists, a firm reminder that this freedom was temporary. It took a moment for Din to stand, wavering on unsteady feet. He was struck by the notion that they were both nearly the same height, confused at why he still felt so small. Even from equal footing, Fett towered over him. 

“Ke nari iviin'yc.” [Order: Act quickly/hurry up.]

As instructed, Din grabbed the bundle of black cloth off of the curved ledge, clutching it between his wrists to avoid contact with his hands. Then he made his way to the room that Fett had indicated. It was no wonder that Din hadn't noticed it before: it was in-set into the natural rock-face of the wall, shadows playing with the edges to create the illusion of an unbroken surface. Din wondered what else he may have missed. 

He entered the room, finding it to be a refresher like none he had ever encountered. In place of a sonic, there was actual running water: a shower, as well as a recess in the floor with a separate tap where the water could collect in a wide basin. He shook his head in disbelief; running water in a desert- on a world where moisture farming was the largest indentured industry. The opulence of it smacked of wealth and entitlement fitting of the Hutt who had once ruled this palace. And the man who rules it now, Din thought fleetingly. 

Aghast as he was, Din did not have time to dwell. He stripped, removing his helmet and clothing and methodically cleaned himself off. He paused only when he glanced at the mirror. The face that was reflected back was haggard, tanned flesh strikingly pale aside from the dark circles under his eyes. There was a deep bruise forming on his bottom lip from when he had bitten down as he was beaten. It looked as if he had just lost a fight. How fitting. A day's worth of stubble mottled his chin, and he wavered on whether to rid himself of it. He fumbled with the implement he found, hands not up to the task, but removed what he could. The result was not overly impressive, his efforts leaving him only slightly less worse for wear. 

Without much time to spare, Din eyed his kute suit that he usually wore underneath his armour. It was thick with grime, the most recent of which was splotched across the upper leg, conspicuously close to the crotch. Warily, he jostled through the bundle of new clothes he was given, relieved to find that it was not unlike his usual attire. He had feared that Fett had meant to humiliate him in some ridiculous get-up. Instead, he had been provided with a modest set of loose pants and a long-sleeved tunic made out of the same thin, black material. The garments felt cool to the touch as he slipped them on. Dressed and with his helmet back in place, he found the sizing of the clothes ill-fitting, the fabric of the top catching at all of the defined lines of his skin, while the bottoms hung loose around his waist. Modest as they were, Din was painfully aware of all of the parts of himself that the new clothes did not cover: the vulnerable region of his neck between the collar of the shirt and the bottom of his helmet, as well as his feet, having been provided no socks. 

“K'olar, adi'ka! [Order: Get over here at once, child!]” Fett ordered from outside. “Time is up.”

Din grabbed his old suit off the floor hastily, taking a deep breath as he padded back out into the rotunda. 

He noticed Boba Fett first, stance wide and commanding as he waited for Din to approach him in the center of the room. As Din paced forward, he felt like he was climbing uphill, the weight of Fett's scrutiny evident with each step closer. The next thing he noticed was the large object that had been positioned beside him. It was one of the pieces of furniture that Din had assumed was a bench during his visual sweep of the room: a dark wooden trestle with thick legs that angled to support a wide horizontal beam. At the end of the trestle's feet, were the same thick steel rings that were so present throughout the room. 

“Leave that there. You wont be needing it.” Din was directed to deposit his bundle of old clothes on the ledge. “K'olar jii. Ke ceta. [Order: Come here now. Kneel in submission.]” 

Din wavered, stopping in his tracks. 

“The more you delay, the worse this will be, ad'ika,” Fett warned. “Gar cuyi jare'la. Meh gar akaani, gar ven trattok'o. Ni tatugi tug'yc: Ke ceta. [You are asking for it. If you fight me, you will fail. I repeat again: Kneel.]” 

There was no doubt in his mind that Fett would make good on his words. Din trudged on, the coarse floor scraping against the soles of his feet, until he was once more in front of Fett. He fell to his knees, the beginnings of a flush creeping up the back of his neck. 

“Jate. [Good] This is what is going to happen next. You are going to be punished for the insult you paid to me.” Fett grabbed the edge of Din's helmet, forcing him to meet his gaze. “K'haatayli! [Order: Look!] I will punish you until I am satisfied that you have sufficiently learned some respect. Tion gar suvari? [Do you understand?]” 

Din tried to nod, finding his chin in a vice-like grip. “'Lek.”

“Ke'moti. [Order: Stand.]” 

Din Djarin was drawn back up to his feet, pulled as if by puppet strings. The thudding of his heartbeat threatened to deafen him as he was thrust over to the trestle. His mind was a tempest of apprehension and doubt, his head bowing under their dense weight as his thoughts began to cloud. He did not resist as his stiff body was manhandled into position. Fett forced him to bend, a familiar hand on the back of his bare neck, until his torso was flat on top of the horizontal beam. The hand rested there for some time, but whether it was a warning or a reassurance, Din did not know. 

The base of the trestle beam was just higher than Din's hips, causing his arms and legs to dangle limply, toes and fingers mere inches from skimming the stone. As he lay prone, Din watched as Fett took his wrists one after the other to fit them along the front legs of the odd bench, pulling them apart and securing the cuffs to the steel rings; arms made to form the sides of a crude triangle with the floor. He knew that this would be done next with his legs, pulling him apart until he was exposed to whatever cruelty Boba Fett saw fit to subject him to. A tremble wracked through him, despite the overwhelming heat that pulsed under his skin. Din fisted his hands, the throb of pain a brutal forewarning.

Cuffs were fitted around his ankles, the snap of the bolts a resounding confirmation of his further subjugation. Although he could not turn to see what Fett was doing, it was as Din predicted. His legs were pulled uncomfortably wide as they were aligned with the supports of the trestle and locked in place. Din struggled in his bonds, the onset of panic settling in as he took in short, shallow breaths. The confinement was rapidly unravelling him, the terror and excitement taking over him tenfold. He twisted against the hard surface of the beam, his growing arousal painful. 

“Keep squirming, ad'ika,” Fett taunted. “You are mine and I am merciless. Tion gar chabaa?” [Are you afraid?] 

The affirmation left his lips with a harsh exhale. “'Lek,” 

It felt like ages before Fett stepped into Din's line of sight, the old bounty hunter continuing to study him as he thrashed, ensnared. When Fett finally approached, he carried with him a long ebony cane with a gleaming silver handle. He made certain that Din could see it before laying the shaft of it along Din's back, parallel to his spine, encouraging him to feel its weight. The cane was solid and foreboding; Din could already anticipate the ferocity with which it might strike him. He stopped fighting against his shackles but couldn't hold back the shudder that passed over his body. 

“Jate. You look so small, ad'ika. How many strikes will it take to break you? Tion shi solus?” [Just one?] 

Fett stepped around Din, sliding the cane down his back until the tip caught on the edge of his trousers. Din bucked, causing Fett to chuckle. “Or will just a touch be enough?”

Din's face flared and he swore darkly as Fett tugged down the loose waist of his pants, exposing his ass. There was little time to linger on this new nakedness; the cane tapped once coldly against the curve of his cheeks, before it was drawn back, whistling sharp and high as Fett landed his first severe strike. 

The cry burst from Din's lungs upon impact, searing his throat and winding him completely. Tears stung at the back of his eyes, and his brow contorted as he tried to regain some composure. He was grateful for the helmet that remained his barrier, knowing that if Fett could see what he was doing to him, he would be utterly destroyed. 

“Nayc [No]. One will not do.” Fett chided. “More is needed. Tion serim?” [Correct?]

Din winced as the cane pressed against the line in his flesh where it had just landed. Could he really handle another? “Serim.” 

Almost before the word could be uttered, Fett had struck him again. The cane made contact with bruising efficiency, wielded with even more force than it had been initially. This time Fett did not ask before continuing his onslaught, every bit as merciless as he had advised. Din's tears fell freely as he writhed on the trestle, tugging at the bonds with fisted fingers and splayed toes. His body was a furnace, nerves alight with a surge of sensation. Despite its brutality, the cane became his touch point, and he felt its presence constantly, whether it had connected with his flesh or was readying to strike. Horror dawned on him when he realized he was babbling through his sobs. “Vor entye...vor entye...vor entye...” [Thank you...thank you... thank you...] 

A solid hand laid on the back of his neck and Din looked up to see Fett looming over him. The hunter's expression was admonishing. “As pleased as I am by your words, they are not what I want to hear from you, ad'ika. You will apologize to me for the insult, and you will do so respectfully. Tion gar suvari?[Do you understand?]” 

Din's face fell, his helmet thunking against the beam in his collapse. His body was not his own and he was unsure he could form the words, even if he wanted to. 

The cane came down on him once more, cracking against the back of his thighs. Din imagined what the welts would look like, striped down his pelt as if he were a wild beast. He felt feral, out of control, cock achingly hard against the trestle. He groaned, desperate for release. 

“N'eparavu takisit. [Sorry; (Literal) I eat my insult.]” The vowels were sluggish on his tongue, voice cracking as he cried. “Ni ceta, alor.” [(Groveling apology) I'm sorry, sir.] 

“Ori'jate, ad'ika.[Very good, child.] You break beautifully.” Fett's hand caressed the marks he had inflicted, causing Din to hiss in a shallow breath. “But this lesson is not over. You are mine, and this you must learn.”

Dread fell over Din like a shroud. He twisted in his bonds, desperate to see what Fett intended to do next, but his efforts were futile. Fett's hand left him briefly as the hunter moved to the edge of the rotunda. Was Fett leaving him there? Din pulled at his shackles, limbs stiff. 

Being left as he was would have been a mercy. When Fett returned, he did not delay in administering his next lesson. Din nearly screamed as harsh hands pried apart his wounded ass cheeks, something metallic, cold, and slick prodding against his tight opening. With devastating slowness, an object was inserted, becoming exponentially obtrusive the further it entered, flaring sharply before tapering at the base. His body pulsed against the pressure, gripping tightly as it was lodged securely in place. 

Din cried, humiliated and ashamed at how much control he had relinquished- how desperately he had craved the abuse. He had been used, now both inside and out, and even so, his arousal did not falter. 

“So open for me,” growled Fett, prodding the base of the plug before scratching his fingertips over the raised welts surrounding it. “Kandosii'la [Stunning]. How does it feel?”

This could not be happening. Din shook his head, choking on his tears, too horrified to speak. 

“Ke jorhaa'i! [Order: Tell me]” Fett smacked him, the touch scalding. 

“Y..yaihi'l [Full],” he stammered. “Gedet'ye, alor. [Please, sir.]” 

“Jate.”

There was a rough rustling behind him. After an agonizing moment but without so much as an exclamation, Fett spattered Din with his release, the ejaculate burning as it made contact with his backside. Din was paralyzed with shock as Boba Fett's cum dripped hotly over the lashed skin, feeling more marked than he had been by the cane. 

“You are mine, ad'ika.” Fett declared. “Say it.” 

“Be'gar. [Yours]” 

Fett placed a hand approvingly on Din's neck, kneading into the taught muscle. Through the helmet, Din could smell him, the thick and musty scent every bit as dominant as the rest of the hunter. There were no tears left to cry, nothing left to fight. A calm settled over Din like a weighted blanket as he focused on the touch. When his body had completely stilled, Fett released his bonds from the trestle. Din was pliant as Fett lifted him from the beam as if he were a dozing child, allowing himself to be set on the floor and secured by the wrists back to the familiar steel ring protruding from the stone. 

Every part of his body ached, but none more so than the excruciating hardness between his legs. When Fett left him untouched, Din was ashamed to have considered begging. He shifted on his side, ass aflame, and stifled a yelp as the plug pressed purposefully inside of him. Hands locked in place, he was unable to touch himself, unable to remove the intrusive object. A realization dawned on him that this was how Fett meant to leave him. 

The trestle was removed, the rotunda cleared once more of all but his feeble imprisoned form. Din Djarin glanced up to see Fett looking down on him. How Din had ever expected to capture this man, he did not know. 

“What do you say, ad'ika, shall we do this again?” Fett asked, calling back to his previous promise, teeth sharp behind his grin. 

Din sighed. “Vor entye, alor. [Thank you, sir.]” 

“Ori'jate, ad'ika. [Very good, child.] So greedy. It seems our next lesson shall be patience.” With that, Boba Fett left him, the door of the domed room slamming shut with a solid clank.

And so Din lay, tormented.


	4. The Reward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din is rewarded for good behaviour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, we all learned a bit of patience waiting for this one. It's been nearly a month since the last chapter- my apologies, folks, it's been a busy time.

Din Djarin was sucked into his thoughts as if by a riptide. He closed his eyes, letting himself be carried, floating in a murky ocean of questions he couldn't quite parse. It was if he were immersed in a language he had never heard before, new sounds familiar only by their intonation. They were harsh and soft and melodic all at once. As they sung to him, he was entranced.

He played back each moment acutely in his mind, breathing deeply and pressing the cool metal of the shackles against his chest: the cane ghosting against his skin, intent on possessing him...the fire smouldering through his limbs...the hand steady on the back of his neck...words wrung out of him as he was rendered helpless. It was fiercely cruel, and yet, alone and unwatched, desire haunted him. How Boba Fett knew how to play him so easily, Din did not know.

All he knew was that he was filled with longing. He could feel it whispering in the back of his brain, making his hair stand on end. And no matter how hard he tried, he could not swat it away. He was in pain, undoubtedly, but he was also absolutely and incredibly aware of his own existence. It was both a shock and a relief; after years wandering as a shadow of a person, he could finally confront himself. When he was adopted into the Tribe, he had been so relieved to replace the family he had lost that he had not realized that he had done so at the expense of his sense of self. He had devoted everything into obtaining his armour, building it up not as a second skin, but as his only skin, investing nothing into who he was without it. He had never questioned this way of being, never thought to consider the trade-off, or even that he had lost anything in doing so. Once that choice was made, he did not allow himself to make any others. With a sudden, sorrowful jolt, he realized that he did not need to deny himself any longer.

When Fett returned, Din did not stir. His consciousness came back to him, slow and imposing as ocean waves. He was vaguely aware that his hands had been uncurled from his chest. He opened his eyes, watching as he was once more released from the chains tethered to the floor. A question formed and then fell incoherently from his lips.

“ _Shhh, ad'ika._ ” Fett hushed. “ _Udesii.” [Take it easy; calm down.]_

Din winced as he was lifted, gritting his teeth around a moan as the man's arms made contact with his bruised flesh, making the plug jostle inside of him. He was alight with soreness and apprehension, unsure what Fett meant to do with him. The arms around him were broad and secure, clasping him into a firm embrace. Held tightly, Din could feel the warmth of Fett's chest through his thin clothes, finding there to be no barrier of beskar between their bodies.

He was taken across the rotunda, back through the small doorway to the room where he had been ordered to clean himself up. Once there, he was set back down, almost gingerly. Puzzled, he observed as Fett turned the knobs by the secondary tap, causing a rush of steaming water to cascade into the large basin set into the stone. The area was easily the size of a small pool; it must have taken _months_ to farm the water. He shook his head, feeling remarkably bold. “How many slave hands does it take to fill that tub?” His voice was gravel in his throat, dry and flat.

Fett laughed. “It's been a while since you've been on Tatooine, _ad'ika_. Never you mind.”

As the water ran, Fett approached Din once more. A thrill of trepidation went through him, unsure if he was frightful or eager to take things up where they left off- or if he could even handle it if they did.

“ _Olaro'jii [Come now]_ ,” Fett beckoned. “ _Ni copaani haa'taylir kadase. Ke tengaana.” [I want to see your wounds. Order: Show me.]_

When he realized that Fett intended to help him to his feet, Din pushed him away. “ _Nu'ni liniba gaa'tayl.” [I don't need help.]_ He shuffled back until his shoulders made contact with the rough stone wall, bracing his weight as he hauled himself to his feet. Pain spiked through him and he rasped in a breath, unsteady. But he had made it up on his own, and of that he was oddly proud.

He fingered the hem of his shirt, aware that Fett was studying him as he hesitated. This was just another meaningless layer, Din thought, he had already exposed more of himself than clothes could hide. Still, he had never been this bare, never in front of another. His chest was tight, heart knocking ominously against his ribs.

“I can order you again, _ad'ika._ If that's what you need.”

Din flared, unsure whether Fett was teasing him or being serious. Fett had been entirely commanding during their last encounter; to offer such a suggestion was an insult. He was sure that Fett could compel him to do whatever he wished- why bother giving an option?

“ _Gar cuyi alor. [You're the boss.]”_ Din retorted, suddenly not caring if it put him on precarious ground. The aftereffects of the events of the past day were catching up with him, the pain exhausting him beyond his limits. Was it really only a day? It seemed an eternity. The fabric balled in his fists, his knuckles white. He did want to take it off, to rid himself of any remaining pretenses and admit that he was feeding off of the hunter's sadism as if he were starving. He gritted his teeth, swaying as his knees began to buckle. “ _Nar'sheb gar ke'gycse. [You can take your orders and shove it]”_

Din waited, irritation building when Fett remained unfazed. The man was close enough to strike him, but instead he just stared, eyes gleaming as if amused. “Your fight is commendable, _ad'ika_ , but unnecessary. I will give you what you need in due time. Now stop being so modest. _Ke te'habi be kute. [Order: Remove your clothes.]_ ”

_Fine_ , Din thought, resigned. He pulled the ill-fitting shirt up over his head, snagging the neck around the base of his helmet before tearing it free. The air in the room was warm and growing damp from the hot water filling the basin. Yet a chill passed over him, pricking his flesh. Next, he removed the trousers, not waiting to be prompted. Despite hanging loosely from his hips, the fabric caught on his skin, peeling away from the spots where Fett had marked him as if ripping away fresh scabs.

Fett motioned to him, circling a finger in the air to order him to turn. Anger and shame flooded through him as he faced the wall, feeling Fett's eyes creep down his body and over each darkening bruise that mottled his backside.

“ _Ori'jate, [Very good.]”_ Fett praised. “Now get in the tub.”

The water was nearly at the brim of the basin, steam clouding over the surface. Din turned and stepped towards it, legs shaking as he focused on keeping his feet flat against the stone, willing himself not to crumple in a heap. A brief thought flitted through his mind: of his captor forcing him down into the depths. His throat constricted, as if anticipating the rush into his lungs. He made it to the edge.

Din choked in a breath as he lowered himself into a crouch, pain threatening to rip his body in half as he sunk stiffly into the scalding water. He lost his balance, water engulfing him for several pounding heartbeats before he broke the surface. Fett barely seemed to notice, moving instead to turn off the tap and then to remove his own clothing. Din stared, the panic still beating in his ears as he watched Fett take off each layer heedlessly, as if doing so was less a vulnerability than a show of strength. The hunter was every bit as solid as Din had imagined, his vast torso muscled as if plated with steel, his cock thick and daunting where it swung between his legs. Din swallowed, his stomach coiling.

With growing unease, Din moved to the farthest side of the basin, facing away from Fett. He grasped the edge and tried to get a grip on his thoughts. The water nudged against his back as it was displaced, Fett stepping in behind him smoothly. Sweat dripped down Din's temples, collecting along his jaw. He took several purposeful breaths and then took off his helmet.

It was heavy in his hands, but setting it down was no relief. The metal rang as it struck the stone, echoing off of the uneven walls. He stared at it, anxiety creeping through him. It was if he had just removed his face; the helmet more familiar to him than his own reflection. His skin itched. He rubbed at his eyes, scrubbing away at the tears that had long since streaked and crusted over. Frustrated, he breathed out deeply and submerged himself once more in the water.

Din stayed beneath the surface for as long as his lungs could bear it. He knew sooner or later he would have to face the inevitable gravity of what he had just done, but he held himself down until his body demanded release. Breathless, he broke the surface.

Heavy hands took hold of him. One encircled the back of his neck, a thumb steady under the corner of his jaw, while the other pushed the damp strands of hair out of his eyes and rested firmly on his forehead. He met the hunter's gaze, too stricken to realize that he'd been guided to do so. His heart hammered. His chest heaved. He hoped he wasn't sobbing.

“That's it, _ad'ika. Orijate. Nu'gar liniba haaranovor._ [ _Very good. You don't need to hide._ ] Let me see you.” Fett's fingers threaded along Din's scalp, tugging roughly, drawing him closer. He was pulled, weightless, into the man's lap, wincing when his sore flesh made contact with Fett's thighs. “ _Kar'tayli meg ru'cuyi urakto._ [ _I know that was difficult]_ But I can also see that this is what you wanted. _Tion serimi? Ke'jorhaa'i. [Correct? Order: Speak]”_

Din couldn't look away, trapped in the dark pitch of the hunter's gaze. His tongue felt heavy, mouth dry despite the humidity in the air. Behind the helmet, it was easier to guard his thoughts, to have the emotion behind his words translated through the neutral tone of the vocoder. Now, he was without his last layer of protection. The hunter could analyze him- and he was certainly doing so- aware of every moment he tried to look away, how the harsh consonant that accompanied an order snapped him back. Din nodded his assent, not trusting himself to speak.

Fett's thumb scraped down the side of Din's neck and pressed against the quickening pulse. Annoyance flashed through his eyes. “That will not do. I am not playing games, _ad'ika_. If you are going to take that off, then you will answer me explicitly- and perhaps you might have a say in how this goes. Otherwise, put it back on. I can have you either way. You know what I've asked. I wont repeat myself again.”

Din shifted, skin flaring. His body clenched involuntarily around the plug still lodged firmly in his ass. Part of him wanted to test Fett's words, to find out exactly what he was capable of without any suggestion. But another part, spurred by the desire twisting knots inside his gut, just wanted release.

“ _'Lek, gar serimi. [Yes (informal), you are correct.]”_ He managed to respond. The grip around his neck tightened fractionally, encouraging him to continue. He knew what was demanded without Fett speaking it. “ _Alor. [Sir],”_ he finished.

“ _Jate. [Good]_ You did well today. Did you enjoy it?”

The question was too blunt, too close to the truth; Din recoiled as if he'd been slapped. If the firm hands had not continued to hold him fast, he would have fallen.

“ _Ne'tioni. [Don't ask.]_ I don't want to answer that,” he growled.

Strangely, Fett did not push for a response, affirmative or otherwise. “Very well. _Me'copaani? [What do you want?]_ ”

That was the real question, wasn't it? The one that had been lingering ever since he had allowed the first lash to fall- or was it before that? Searching back, it was the same one that had tugged him back to Tatooine in the first place, back to Boba Fett, who was so much more certain, so much more in control than he was. Din's view of the world had been shattered, and what was left was confusing and raw. He didn't have the first idea of what to do with the pieces. He wanted- _needed_ \- someone to take the reins. “ _Cuyi dar'manda._ [ _I have lost my soul; Literal: I am not Mandalorian]_.”

“ _Copaani mirjahaal._ [ _You want peace of mind.]”_ Fett confirmed, searching for something in Din's expression- acceptance? Denial? He nodded slightly as if he found it. “You want me to punish you, _tion serimi?”_

“ _'Lek_ ,” Din responded, the word almost a whisper.

“I don't follow your Way-”

Din cut him off. “I don't care.”

“Very well then. _Gar cuyi jare'la, ad'ika. [You are being stupidly oblivious to the danger.]”_ The grin Fett gave him was feral. “You may come to regret it. You're lucky I also reward good behaviour. And you have been good, haven't you, _ad'ika_?”

He was no stranger to uncomfortable situations, but Din found himself caught off guard as the words burned under his skin. It was easier to accept the physical pain that racked through his body than his own body's response to the verbal debasement. And he was responding- maddeningly so. He wanted nothing more than to tear away the hands grasping his face and force them around the cock throbbing between his legs.

Fett has promised to make him wait, to teach him _patience_. But he had been waiting. How long had he been left alone in the dark? His sense of time had been skewed by the shadows in the cavernous room. If he were to hazard a guess, he was sure it was well over an hour, maybe more.

“Do you want me to touch you?” The hunter asked, tightening his grip in Din's hair and pulling his head back, exposing his throat. Desire thrilled down his spine. It was not lost on Din that he was being manipulated, he just couldn't bring himself to care.

“' _Lek [Yes (informal)],”_ he stated swallowing down any inkling of doubt. Remembering himself, he confirmed once more. “ _Elek, alor. [Yes (formal), sir]_ ”

The hand on the back of his neck shifted away, tracing up over the exposed line of his throat as if readying him for dissection. Fett then thumbed at Din's bottom lip. It stung from the pressure, split and bruised where Din had bitten it as he was being lashed. Din tensed, confused when the digit was forced into his mouth, past the edge of his teeth, until the wide, calloused pad rested against the top of his tongue.

“Suck,” Fett ordered. “Show me what you can do with that pretty mouth.”

If Din could have washed himself away in the water, he would have done so, but it would not have made a difference. He felt suddenly and inexorably disgusting. The saliva pooled in the corners of his mouth and the urge to gag- less from the physical extent of the intrusion than the thought of what he was yielding to- was strong. His tongue curled around the man's finger, drawing it in as he did as he was told. He wasn't sure when he had closed his eyes, but when he opened them he saw the satisfaction in the hunter's eyes.

“ _Ori'jate_. [Very good].” Fett withdrew his thumb and patted Din on the side of his face as if he were some pup he was training. “ _Cuyi aikiyc [You are desperate],_ so eager to please _._ I'm going to enjoy seeing you choke on me later. Now, don't give me that look, _ad'ika._ I meant what I said earlier. You are mine, and I will have all of you. _”_

Din flared, wishing away the image in his mind. He searched for that incoherence, that deep cloud that would lay his thoughts to rest, but he had lost it. Shifting, he tried to find it again in the pain. But as he pressed against his bruises, he was only further reminded of its absence as he unintentionally ground against the plug that so brutally impaled him. He grimaced, breathing deeply.

Fett loosened his grip, tracing rough lines like lightning strikes down Din's body. Since that first night, Din had longed for the contact, to have someone else hold him tightly and give him the release he so wanted, in whatever manner they deemed to give it to him. The hunter's hands dragged irritatingly slowly over his skin, pausing to trace over every mark and scar. Although nowhere near as battle-worn as Fett, Din was no stranger to the consequences of his profession. Years of blaster fire, blades, and shrapnel had taken their toll, each one harking back to a time when he was not in possession of his full beskar armour. It seemed an age before Fett finally took him in hand, circling around his erect cock and pulling up once, from base to tip. A shudder jolted through him.

With his other hand, Fett reached beneath Din and tested the base of the plug, pulling just enough to tug at his rim. Din gritted his teeth at the pressure, forcing a low grunt to stop in his throat.

“ _Ke'rejorhaa'i, ad'ika [Order: tell me]_ , has anyone ever touched you here?” Fett asked, ensuring Din looked at him directly.

He didn't want to admit just how naive he was, uncertain what it would mean for their arrangement. Din thought about lying.

“ _Nu draar. [(Emphatic) Never]”_ he responded. After all he had been through, it was strange how this fact left him nearly as embarrassed as offering himself so willingly to be used.

Fett's expression was equally menacing and mirthful. He leaned in close, his low growl tickling against Din's ear. “ _Iba'dinui. [What a gift.]”_

Fett removed the plug with agonizing slowness, forcing Din to linger on each excruciating inch as he was first stretched wide over the flared base and then left grasping against the tapered edge. While doing so, Fett had clenched tightly around the base of Din's cock, not allowing his erection to flag in spite of his discomfort. Once the object was removed, Fett set it on the edge of the basin where Din could see it. He couldn't help but think he had somehow been deceived, the size of the object so incongruous to how it had felt inside him. But he wasn't left to idle on the thought. Fett had started to work his fingers into him, making use of the slickness that remained from the plug before the water could rinse it away.

It was impossible to stop himself from struggling. The width of the plug did not hold a candle to the hunter's fingers, which bored into him with fierce efficiency. His body strained against the pressure, quaking. He nearly collapsed onto Fett when the fingers crooked inside of him, pressing deep.

“That's it, _ad'ika. Ori'laandur. Ke' gedeti tigaanur gar. [So fragile. Order: Beg me to touch you.]”_ Fett dragged his fist along Din's shaft emphatically.

Din tasted blood as he bit down once more on his lip, holding back a cry as he was roughly brought to the brink. “ _Ge..gedet'ye. [Please]”_ he gritted out, head falling against the hunter's shoulder. “ _Gedet'ye tigaanu, alor. [Please touch me, sir]”_

“You do beg so beautifully. But I am going to refuse you.” Fett stated, loosening his grip. Din glanced up, betrayal pricking tears at the back of his eyes. Had he been lied to?

“But you said-”

“I said you deserved to be rewarded, and you will be. Here,” He took hold of Din's hand, guiding it to where his own had just been, curling the stiff joints around the sensitive head of his cock. “You are going to finish yourself while I fuck my fingers into your tight ass. You are going to be grateful that it's not my cock I'm making you take right now. And when you do finish, you will thank me for it- _Tayli'bac? [(Aggressive) Got it?]”_

Din was at a loss for words. Frustrated and craving release, he tugged his hand over the hardness between his legs, the movement staggered by the chafing friction beneath the water. He pushed past the pain that continued to radiate under his palms and focused on the pleasure building in his gut. When Fett began to thrust his fingers into him, he nearly yelped. That dull pressure had returned, stroked into consciousness by the hunter's hand, and increasing until it threatened to overwhelm him.

“ _Ori'jate. [Very good]._ This is what you needed, hmm? Just a heavy hand and a good hard fuck?” Fett clamped down on the back of Din's neck, forcing him down further. “That's it, _ad'ika_. Cry for me.”

He couldn't help himself; Din came with a shout. It echoed in his ears, tossed back and taunted at him as it reverberated off of the stone walls. Finally satiated, he fell against Fett's chest, body buzzing with waves of static. Unconsciously, he curled, trying to combat the emptiness that had begun to pool inside him. Fett had removed his fingers and Din was left with a hollow, burning feeling as his body struggled to adjust to their absence.

“What do you say, _ad'ika?_ ” Fett's voice was dulcet in his ear. The hunter had wrapped his arms tightly around Din, imprisoning him in an embrace. There, he lay still as the steady, controlled beating of his captor's heart began to lull him.

“ _Vor entye, alor [Thank you, sir.]”_ Din breathed.

Fett stroked along the back of Din's neck, twining his fingers in the curling strands of hair and tugging gently. “ _Ba'gedet'ye.” [You're welcome.]_


	5. The Assent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din comes to terms with the give and take of his arrangement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amount of time I spend tormenting this character I love so much is embarrassing. 
> 
> Thank you very much to all you wonderful people who have taken the time to read and comment. I truly feel undeserving of your kind words. 
> 
> And also a special thank you to this lovely person who made art- I swoon!   
> https://hales-emissary.tumblr.com/post/642137707993235456/febuwhump-day-3-imprisonment-im-not-saying

A low rumble snapped Din out of his trance. He sat up, a cauldron of black dots spattering his vision as the blood rushed to his head along with a flurry of unsettling thoughts. Immediately, he sought out his helmet, heart drilling in his chest when he caught sight of the glint of beskar on the ledge. The visor stared back at him levelly, both confirming and judging the vulnerable state in which he had put himself. Despite knowing that it was his own hands that had placed it there, under no will but his own, guilt engulfed him like a set of ill-fitting armour. He could feel it down to his bones, his breath coming in shallow where it had tightened a vice-like grip around his rib cage.

Only moments before, he had been heady with contentment, more secure in the arms of a brutal bounty hunter than he could ever remember being. Although the feeling had nearly dissipated, an echo of it lingered, stilling the urge to pull back and fight. Even though everything that he had been trained told him that he should have welcomed death over putting himself at the mercy of another, he knew he would do it again. He would do anything to return to that place, to find peace. He was desperate for it.

Belatedly, he realized that he was being spoken to. He reluctantly met Fett's eyes, face flushed and stinging where he had burrowed it into the hunter's chest.

“Come, _ad'ika_. It's time to get up.” Fett shifted his arms around him, hooking under Din's shoulders and knees and effortlessly depositing him on the stone floor at the edge of the basin. As soon as his flesh met the air, Din began to shiver. Once more, he was alarmed by a sense of lost time, at how unconsciously he had slipped away; the temperature of the water had dropped and Din had been completely unaware of when it had turned frigid.

Din watched over his knees as Fett drained the water. As it spiralled, Din was again sickened by the wastefulness. No stranger to working hard for what little he had, he couldn't imagine a higher disrespect; someone had laboured for days to produce this water out of nothing just for Din to ejaculate into it and toss it away. He glanced over to Fett, who was methodically drying himself off and dressing in his simple, black attire. The man didn't strike Din as someone with lavish tastes. But he knew looks could sometimes deceive, and Fett certainly didn't look twice at the emptying tub. Of course, he had no need to- he likely could gain control of nearly every available resource on the planet with little effort. What was a few gallons to someone with an entire syndicate at their disposal to do their bidding?

Fett approached, tossing his used towel at Din. It was damp and coarse and laden with the same heavy scent as the hunter. “Dry off and get dressed. _Ke'jiila. [Order: quickly]._ I have work to do.”

Din braced himself against the floor, hefting himself upwards onto his feet. His body shook from the effort and the cold. This time, Fett did not offer his assistance, moving instead to gather the clothes that Din had dropped in an unceremonious pile across the room. Din was still damp when they were shoved into his arms, but he put them on anyway, Fett's impatience making him certain that he would not be given another opportunity if he dawdled.

When he shoved his head through the opening of the shirt, his heart caught in his throat as he witnessed Fett picking up his helmet. The hunter rotated it in his hands, tracing over the smooth beskar surface as it gleamed under the dim glow of the overhead lights. The action was strangely intimate; Din could feel the fingers ghosting against his own flesh, peeling him apart. His skin prickled. He tried to convince himself that the strange jealousy he felt for that touch was simply unease. Fett was already in possession of the rest of his armour, who was to say that he wouldn't claim this piece as well? Unwittingly, he raised his hands in a subtle plea, tethered to the belief that this was a part of himself he was not yet ready to abandon.

Fett looked purposefully at Din's outreached fingers, causing Din to drop them, embarrassed. The hunter approached him and thrust the beskar into Din's hands. “As I told you, _ad'ika_ , I can have you either way.”

The metal was unnaturally warm, the relief palpable. Din set the helmet back on, the vice around his ribs easing ever so slightly.

“ _K'olaro, mhi ru'go'naasi ca'nara. [Order: Come, we have wasted time.]”_ Fett directed him back out into the rotunda, voice clipped. Try as he might, Din could not move quickly, each step a conscious argument that he was always on the verge of losing. His insides burned, heat creeping up his neck under a thin layer of cold sweat as he wondered at what was to come. As he proceeded, he could feel the hunter's presence along his spine as closely as he had felt the spear-point.

By the time he reached the centre of the room, toes pointed towards the thick ring embedded in the stone, he was ready to drop. And he would have done so, had Fett not ordered otherwise: “ _K'arasuumi motir. [Order: Remain standing.]”_

There, he observed warily as Fett paced around the curved room, selecting first two short lengths of chain from one of the racks and then picking up a strange panel that had been set against the wall. It was nearly square in shape and at least three hand spans wide, the muted glimmer betraying it as an iron alloy. The thing was innocuous- mundane, even; it could have been a piece of scrap torn from an old freighter. Despite this, fear tingled at the back of his mind. If the previous implements were any indication, this object was anything but innocent.

The chains clanged ominously against the panel as Fett advanced towards him. Din could only speculate as to what Fett had planned, trepidant and fascinated. When Fett returned to the centre of the room, he flipped the panel in his hands, allowing Din to catch a glimpse of the other side. It was a trivet, the entire surface gridded with a series of closely packed pointed studs, except for a small hole in the middle. Fett set the piece of metal on the floor, studded side up, positioning the round cut-out over the ring. It gave a low snap as it met the stone, revealing its weight.

Din felt himself take a step back, body realizing that something was amiss before his brain could fully process it. He tried to read Fett's expression, but was met only with a stern look, reprimanding him for his movement. The hunter circled behind him.

“ _Ke nari be'gaane kama. [Order: Put your hands behind your back.]_ ” The words were hot and tingling on his neck; if he were to lean back only slightly, he would have felt Fett's teeth against his skin. He did as he was commanded, grimacing as his wrists were pulled tightly together and the shackles locked into place with one of the chains.

Suddenly, Fett tugged Din into his chest, setting him off-balance. “ _Ke rejorhaa'i, ad'ika [Order: Tell me],_ what am I going to do to you later?”

The words slithered over him as he was reminded of how Fett's finger had felt in his mouth, at what else he had been promised. A nervous excitement thrilled through him, causing a shudder to ripple down his body. Din's throat constricted. He shook his head, refusing to acknowledge it.

Fett's disapproval was palpable. “I don't have time for this now. When I ask you a question, you will answer me without hesitation. This is what I expect when I return. _Ven gedeti cetar bal ven gedeti cuyir ru'ganar. Tayli'bac? [You will beg to kneel and you will beg to be used (literal: possessed). Understood?]”_

Fett's phrasing did not escape Din and it terrified him; this was not stated as an order, it was a request. Was he really being given the opportunity to refuse? The sliver of free will- tiny as it was- snagged at the back of his mind. In that moment, Fett had stated his wishes and it was up to Din to accept them. Unwilling submission was somehow less distressing. Could he really admit that he wanted this? After a harrowing moment, Din responded. _“Elek, alor. [Yes, sir.]”_

“ _Jate. [Good.]_ Step onto the plate.”

There was nothing visually imposing about the studded trivet. It was not as elegantly menacing as the ebony cane, nor as cruelly sharp as the whip. But as Din placed his feet upon it and allowed his weight to settle into his soles, he knew he was in for a pain unlike anything he had experienced before. He swore under his breath, locking his knees in a poor effort to steady himself and ease the pressure. Fett nudged at Din's feet, ensuring they were placed evenly on the panel before crouching down to affix the shackles around Din's ankles to the familiar ring that protruded up through the hole in the metal. Predictably, the chained tether did not allow him any relief, making it impossible to take even a half-step from his position.

“ _Ori'jate. [Very good.]_ You have asked for punishment- _Ibic ni dinu. [This is what I'm giving you. (Implied) Take it or leave it.]_ ”

Din braced himself, breathing deep. “ _Ni hiibi. [I will take it.]”_

“We shall see.” Fett placed a hand on top of Din's head, the minute pressure of it crushing him upon the spiked surface. It was held there for several beats, releasing only as Din began to tremble. Fett smirked, running a rough hand over the side of Din's helmet in mock caress. “ _Troch, gar ven gedeti. Nu lise parer. [Certainly, you will beg. I can't wait.]”_

Ensnared, the hunter left him to face the harsh effects of gravity alone.

*

Din breathed. This was nothing he could not handle.

As the air rushed into his lungs, he forced himself to hold it in, trying to trick himself into thinking it would make him feel lighter. He found a spot on the far side of the room and fixed his eyes upon it. With his hands bound behind his back, his balance was unsteady, pressing into all angles of his feet as he tried to keep his posture straight. The rivets were lance points under his soles, but he pushed the thought aside, minimizing each one against the other trials he had been through in his lifetime. What was standing on a few bumps compared to the scars he bore? _Osik [Shit],_ if his life had not prepared him for a bit of harsh treatment then nothing could.

The longer he stood, the more difficult it was to keep his mind off of the pointed metal. The studs felt as if they had tripled in size and sharpened under his skin. Each one was a near perfect pyramid piercing up into the balls of his feet. He became so aware of their placement, he was almost certain he could count them. He gritted his teeth, sweat beading on his forehead beneath the beskar. Yes, he could handle this.

He was foolish.

**

After a while, the collar of his shirt was soaked and sticking to his neck and shoulders. It was warm in the room, the heat of the desert sun seeping through the ceiling, but still Din shook. He had taken to alternating between clenching his jaw and releasing a stream of curses. The spikes stabbed up into him with such intensity that he was surprised he could not see them jutting out through the tops of his feet. He swore again, tempted to shout- to demand that he be freed. Frustration flashed through him with the intensity of a proton bomb.

How long was Fett going to leave him there?

Din wanted to kill him.

***

Later still, Din was beyond words. Scenarios began to flood his mind, detailing every possible exchange that may win him some reprieve. There was little he would not give of himself to save even one foot from this agony. He slumped where he stood, knees quaking and desperate to drop. Careless desire clouded his thoughts, obscuring any remaining doubts as to what he wanted. He craved sensation anywhere but the point where he met the ground. Let him feel the whip, the cane- _haran [hell]_ , even the strike of the chains. He would take a hundred lashes of either, of each, and be thankful for it. He would allow himself to be claimed. _Yes_. Anything to be free of this solitary torment.

He burned, wanting, ready to plead and to please. If only Fett were there to hear it.

****

It took Din a moment to realize that the ragged sound he was hearing was his own sobs. The pain was so sharp and bright and euphoric that it had carried him far, far away from the tiny square he inhabited. As he was jolted back to reality, his stomach lurched to his throat, causing him to sputter and choke on his tears.

His body tingled, electric and aching for the feeling of Fett's fingers along his skin. Straining, he managed to raise his head from where it had lolled onto his chest, vision blurred through the tears that streamed like raindrops down the inside of his visor. The fantasy that he had been lost in had been so tangible, so acute, that he was devastated to discover that he was still alone.

*****

When the door opened, Din paid little attention. He had imagined this very situation so many times that he was sure that this was just the latest of his illusions. However, this time, the hunter approach. This time, a solid hand was set atop his helmet, dragging him back to reality, and Din knew for certain that his eyes were not playing tricks on him. A deluge of emotion threatened to collapse him, limbs shaking with such intensity it was a wonder he even remained upright. His head tilted up into the touch as if doing so would allow Fett's fingers to pass through the beskar. Words escaped his lips before he had time to process them, tumbling out in a torrent of garbled nonsense.

Although nothing changed significantly about Fett's stance, he was somehow taller, more exultant. He was grinning, eyes gleaming. A strange satisfaction bloomed in Din's gut. Fett met his eyes behind the metal. “ _Tion tsikala jii? [Are you ready now?]”_

Din focused his attention on controlling his speech, cocking his head at the unfamiliarity of his own voice. It was broken and strained as if he had only just stopped screaming. He managed to get the words out all the same. “ _Gedet'ye, alor...Gedet'ye gar duumi cetar. [Please, sir. Please allow me to kneel.]”_

Fett studied him, fingers kneading into the top of Din's helmet. Pain shot up his legs, but Din cast it aside, wanting nothing more than to feel those fingers drag across his scalp. Fett pushed. “ _Majyci. [Go on. (Literal) Add.]”_

A sound escaped him, pitched as a wild beast ensnared. “ _Mayen. Gar lise narir ni mayen. [Anything. You can do anything to me.]”_

His captor made no move to release him. Despite being a step away and maintained in a continuous hold, Din felt light-years from getting what he wanted. Fett chuckled. “ _Narir? [Do?]_ Is that all? I'd advise you to select your words more carefully, _ad'ika_.”

Din burned from the inside out, embarrassed at being called out for his choice of language. He had been purposely vague, hoping that Fett would fill in the gaps for him. Evidently, he could not rely on connotations. He cast his eyes aside and grumbled. “ _Naritir. [(Literal) Insert/place/put; (Implied) To fuck/to dominate.]”_

“ _Jate'shya. [Better]”_ Fett removed his hand. “ _Tion al'ani? [But that's it?]”_

Fett took a step back and crossed his arms, ensuring his absence of touch was made clear. He needn't have bothered. Din quaked, suddenly terrified that he would never be free of this torment. The thoughts in his mind were hazy and muddled, too weary to argue semantics. He tried to piece together something that might please this obstinate man. Awareness dawned on him, unhinging him at his core, because he did _want_ to please him. “ _Gedet'ye, alor. Ni cuyi gar ganar. [Please, sir. I am yours to use.]”_

“ _Ori'jate. Ni vore. [Very good. I accept.]”_ Fett unlocked the chain that bound Din's ankles, finally releasing him from the confines of the trivet. He breathed a sigh of relief, but was met with resistance when he tried stepping forward. The metal could have been quicksand for the effort it took to haul free. Din was dismayed to find his limbs sluggish and uncooperative as he peeled his foot off of the studded square and set it on the stone. A stinging jolt travelled up his leg as he tested his weight. Gritting his teeth, he yanked his other foot, urging it to follow. The reprieve was extraordinary, all-encompassing, and disconcertingly short-lived; his legs giving out under him almost immediately.

Din floundered as he fell, struggling against the bonds that made it impossible to brace for the impact. For a panicked moment, he was sure that Fett would simply watch as he crashed to the ground. He certainly did not expect anything more. But Fett caught him swiftly, easing him down so that his knees were saved from cracking against the stone. Gravity was not entirely at fault when Din collapsed against Fett's legs.

The familiar weight of Fett's hand settled over him, tracing down the side of Din's helmet until his fingertips met the edge. There they glanced over skin on his neck, sending a shiver down Din's spine. “ _Ke re'jorhaa'i, ad'ika. Tion te'habi ibic? [Order: Tell me. Shall I remove this?]”_

Din searched himself, finding the fear that was always present at the thought of exposure, but none of the anticipated guilt that usually accompanied it. He had already veered off that path. All he could do was forge ahead. “ _Elek, alor. [Yes, sir.]”_ he responded.

“As you wish.” The helmet was removed and tossed aside. The beskar echoed shrilly as it ricocheted and spun, causing Din to flinch. He ducked into the fabric of Fett's trousers, overly aware of the fact that he looked a complete wreck. The close contact was somehow less mortifying than showing his face. He could feel his skin, damp from the tears, clinging to the rough material as he found solace in its depths. Fett's body was warm and firm and he was drawn to it as a dewback to a desert rock. He squeezed his eyes shut as Fett's fingers tangled into his hair.

“ _Ori'kih. [So small.]”_ Fett hooked a finger under Din's jaw, tilting up his face to expose him in one easy motion. Din couldn't bring himself to look, sure that if he met the hunter's eyes he wouldn't be able to hide just how fragile he'd become. The hunter did not appear to need the confirmation. Fingertips were traced like knife points across his skin, caressing over Din's creased brow as if marking him with indelible ink. Din tried to unwind the knots twisting in his stomach, breathing deeply as one of Fett's fingers came to rest on his bottom lip, pausing and expectant. He allowed his lips to part. If he were dishonest, he would have told himself that it was just his body giving in to the pressure, that this was not stemming from a dark desire to please. But he was nothing if not honest.

He froze, anxious and abashed as Fett stroked his finger down the surface of his tongue. The heavy taste of steel and soot invaded his mouth, tickling at the back of his nose as he was reminded of blaster fire. He fought the urge to gag as he reflexively swallowed in response to the intrusion.

“ _Ori'pel. [So yielding.]”_ Fett praised, removing his finger and patting Din wetly on the cheek. “Will you be so willing when it's my cock in that sweet mouth of yours, _ad'ika_?”

Din willed the floor to consume him, to sink down and disappear into a place where the words could not penetrate. If only he were so lucky. The stone remained solid beneath his knees, the air heavy with the weight of Fett's expectations. When Din responded, the affirmation was barely more than a whisper. “ _'Lek. [Yes.]”_

Fett did not scold him for the informality. “Very well then, _ad'ika_. _Ke'sush [Order: Pay attention]._ You will be open for me. And you will look at me as you yield. If I feel your teeth, you'll feel my whip. _Tayli'bac? [Got it?]”_

He knew better than to hesitate. “ _Elek, alor. [Yes, sir.]”_

“ _Jate. [Good.]”_

Chagrined and slumped on his knees, Din cast his eyes up at Boba Fett. The bounty hunter was formidable, scarred flesh scattering angry shadows over his skin. To Din, he seemed a giant. He watched warily as Fett unfastened his trousers and pulled his length free. It shouldn't have surprised him that the man was already semi-erect, but it did. Was it possible that he was having as much an effect on this hunter as Fett was having on him? The thought would have been gratifying if Din had not been wondering incredulously at how this thing was going to fit inside of him.

Fett tugged himself to hardness in a few idle strokes, eyes never leaving Din. When he was ready, he took Din's jaw in hand loosely, guiding him forward. “Go on, _ad'ika. Tenganaa. [Show me.]”_

There it was again, that sliver embedding itself in the gap where the denotative _ke_ was distinctly absent, signalling to him that there was some choice in this. It left Din perplexed; here he was bound and kneeling, having just begged to be used, and still Fett was testing his willingness as if it held some kind of power. He searched Fett's eyes for some kind of clue as to what this meant. Was he just bored of taking whatever he wanted? Or did he crave something that had never been given freely? Finding no answers, he yielded.

Fett made a low, satisfied sound as Din took the head of his cock into his mouth. He flushed, once more wishing to melt into the ground as he struggled to maintain eye contact. The cock was brutishly wide and Din barely avoided scraping his teeth along the flesh as his jaw was forced open around it. He shifted his tongue around its girth, tasting salt and steel.

“That's it, _ad'ika_ ,” Fett praised, threading his fingers along Din's scalp and tugging gently. “You can take more.”

Din was less certain. As he eased himself further over the incursion, he felt his throat tighten, threatening to choke him unless he pulled back. He took in a staggered breath through his nose. Fett's hands were a constant presence on the back of his skull, frightening and affectionate. Din's heart pounded in his ears as he was closed in. Free of the trivet, he suddenly felt he had entered an even smaller box. The tip passed over the back of his tongue and he reeled, knocking against Fett's fingers.

He was barely allowed half an inch of reprieve; Fett held him firm. “ _Udesii. Gar lise attiniir. [Calm down. You can take it.]_ Look at you, little one. So obedient for me. _Ke soorani. [Order: Suck]”_

Din dropped his gaze, unable to face the scrutiny as he complied. The words seared under his skin, enveloping him in a wave of heat. He did feel incredibly small. Fett's fingers tightened slightly, drawing him closer as Din applied pressure. When the cock breached the back of his throat, Din could not withhold his instinct to fight. He tried in vain to pull back, choking, a panicked noise muted and sealed behind the obstruction of heavy flesh. Fett shushed him as one would calm an anxious animal, circling a thumb tenderly over his temple. He waited until Din's breathing had slowed before drawing his cock back slightly and pushing in deep. Din trembled, tears pricking at the back of his eyes.

“ _Ori'jate. [Very good.]_ You're trying so hard to be still for me. So desperate to please. I wont even need to tell you to beg for this next time, will I?” Fett's pace was punishingly slow as he dragged back along Din's tongue, forcing him to feel every inch before he thrust into him again. “ _Nayc. [No.]_ You'll take whatever I give you.”

The truth of it stung worse than standing for hours on a slab of spiked metal. Tears welled up in his eyes as Fett claimed him, but still he resisted the urge to struggle. He did want this. He knew he wanted this. And yet still the very thought was more a violation than being relentlessly fucked.

Fett quickened, fingers digging into the nape of Din's neck, urging him to feel each painful thrust. It grounded him, just as the cane had, keeping him steady despite the faintness that flooded his brain and eroded his limbs. He was on the verge of collapse when Fett pulled him close as if in an embrace. Din shook, still craving the contact despite how it smothered him. The hunter came without warning, the release scalding down Din's throat in a viscid stream.

Din sputtered as Fett withdrew, heaving in quick gasps. Each inhale abraded his lungs as if he were breathing in acid instead of air. As the hunter stroked away the wet strands of hair that had matted to Din's brow, he closed his eyes and melted into the touch, allowing his body to go limp. He was too weary to feel any sense of shame in what he had just done and Fett made no effort to debase him further. Instead, he engulfed Din, holding him securely as he unlocked his wrists. An ethereal sensation came over him as he was lifted from the stone. Din cracked an eye, noticing blearily that Fett had carried him to the locked door of the rotunda and had keyed in the code.

As he was brought through the doorway, he shrunk against the intensity of the light, delving deeper into his captors arms, seeking darkness. Fett tightened his grip, more than happy to give it to him.

“ _Kandosii, ad'ika. Suum ca'nara jii. [Well done, little one. Rest now.]_ ”


	6. The Drop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Walls come crashing down- some emotional, some literal. Fett re-establishes control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this story has unfolded, I have been blessed with many kind comments and lovely art by some incredibly talented people. Thank you all so much- I appreciate you taking the time to put some happiness in my day. You are wonderful.  
> One such piece by motherstone can be found here (be forewarned- it's as graphic as it is gorgeous!): https://64.media.tumblr.com/be82f50f867ddb901b5b870f8318945b/69115d8a8a634fd8-c1/s640x960/42ce97c69adf15d86c3d8037f60be7fccd8bb55c.png
> 
> I would also like to mention that this chapter contains descriptions of sub-drop, which is a real experience of depression that can be felt after a scene, especially when sufficient aftercare is not present. This story is a dark fantasy. It does not depict a healthy relationship. Play safe, play sane, and play with consent, everyone. 
> 
> xoxo Taz

He woke. The sound of canon fire rang in his ears and the taste of gravel chipped against the back of his throat as he drew in a ragged breath. Even with his eyes shut tightly, he could still see the buildings explode, bloodied scraps of clothing strewn in the street, a layer of dust coating them as if they had been there from centuries past. Try as he might, he could not feel the hand that pulled him away, could not hear the last words that were spoken before the cellar door shut above him. It had been many cycles since his dreams had taken him home, but still nothing had changed.

Din rolled his shoulders back, shrugging away the hands he had unconsciously lodged over his ears. Slowly, he uncurled. His body thrummed, tense as a squib loaded blaster. He opened his eyes, searching his surroundings for whatever had set him on edge. The room was unassuming, empty apart from a few sparse furnishings: a table, a chair, the bed he was lying on. Everything looked old and expensive, but unkempt, as if it had been furnished with hand-me-downs from an extended relative who was not well-liked. Even the bed barely appeared slept in; he hefted himself up, noticing that he'd been lying at the end, atop the covers. Fett was nowhere to be seen.

Having gotten his bearings, Din pushed away a pang of disappointment and assessed the damage. His helmet was gone, chucked aside after he'd fallen prey to Fett. Now in another foreign place, his vulnerability sunk into him with a vengeance. What had become of him? Was he actually starting to trust this bounty hunter? This man with no creed? He eyed the closed doorway across the room, wondering what he might find beyond it- _who_ he might find. There was no guarantee of his safety here. This was Fett's palace, just as much a den of murderers as it had been under Jabba's reign. Although the shackles around his wrists and ankles were not tethered to anything, he knew he was bound.

He winced as he sat up, backside still blazing where he'd been struck. Although it was only one of several brutal reminders of Fett's control, it was certainly the one he relived the most. Din flared, reprimanding himself and searching for a distraction before he became too engrossed in the thought. He tugged his stiff legs close, examining his soles. The skin was an inverted night sky, swollen and pocked with a constellation of dark dots. It would have been beautiful had he not been looking at a canvas of his own marred flesh. He prodded at the skin, grimacing. It was grotesque. As he tested it with his thumb, he hissed in a breath, pain radiating beneath the surface. Walking would be an extraordinary feat, defending himself an impossibility. It dawned on him that this may have been what Fett had wanted all along: to ensure that he was in no shape to fight back.

Fear jolted through him when he realized that he could hear voices beyond the door. They were a low, irate staccato, words unintelligible as Din struggled to pinpoint just how far away they might be. In his condition, really anywhere was too close. When he had been locked away in the rotunda, it had been so easy to close himself off from reality, to forget that anyone existed in this place beyond himself and the hunter who had kept him there. He cast another glance around the room bitterly, unsure if this was some strange freedom he had been extended or some kind of trap.

Although he was accustomed to a life of constant threat and isolation, being in this place hit him differently. He had done something he had never done before: he had willingly given himself over to another person, to be used indiscriminately and unquestioningly inflicted with whatever pain they decided to give to him. And yet, he had awoken alone and discarded. In his submission, he had been so caught up in the physicality of it that he had not considered the emotional toll. Perhaps he really had been oblivious. As he sat, lost in his thoughts, a monstrous emptiness crept into the hollow space inside his chest. It stretched, greedily clawing a chasm up through his throat and into his skull, filling him with a desolation darker than the one that had shadowed him after giving up the child. The sensation came over him quickly, but it was so similar to past feelings that he didn't sense the danger in it until he had sunk too far. A wave of nausea passed over him as he felt his stomach drop. It was a sensation akin to falling. As it turned out, when he stumbled off his path, he had not ended up in the woods- he had plunged off a cliff.

Terrified to dwell on his feelings any longer, Din shoved himself off of the bed, barely muffling a cry as his wounded feet collided with the floor. The impact provided an ounce of painful clarity, enough to propel him forwards towards the door. It was undoubtedly locked- he had seen the keypad flashing red- but he was driven to bring himself that much closer to freedom. Or, at the very least, close enough to hear the voices beyond. He made contact with the wall, taking in the solid surface against his palms before heaving in a sigh and allowing his legs to give out. His whole body throbbed with a dull pervasive ache. He slid to the floor, breathing into it and willing it to dispel the depression that was gnawing inside of him. This rush of feelings was as confusing as it was all-consuming. He could not reconcile how he could feel so content in one moment and completely shattered the next. He rested his cheek against the cool stone wall, searching for succor in the familiar modulation as he honed in on the hunter's voice. It thrummed against his ear. He closed his eyes, drifting into it.

The hiss of the door startled him out of a doze. Sinking into unconsciousness had been easier than fighting the harrowing rumination. Prior to his captivity, he would never have let his guard down in such a way. He would have jumped to his feet, ready to face whoever challenged him. But Fett had stripped him of this impulse along with his dignity. In his state, he felt no need to prove himself, no need to fight out of his dire situation; it was too late for that. He knew the position he had accepted was risky- more so than any he had encountered- and yet still he had capitulated to it.

Din glanced up groggily, narrowing his eyes when he caught sight of the bounty hunter. Fett was fully armoured, his iconic dull green plating variegated with gleaming patches of brilliant beskar. It was newly dented from battle and crusted with grime. Din recalled Fett's fingers on his tongue, laden with the metallic tang of blaster fire. It was becoming apparent that the world outside of this strange space they shared was fast encroaching. Anxiety bloomed in his stomach.

Fett dropped down beside him. “ _Ke shekemi, ad'ika. [Order: Come with me.]_ We must go.”

The hunter hauled Din to his feet, half-carrying him out into the hall. He was bringing Din to the room they had fought in; Din recognized the torn tapestries on the far wall. As they headed towards it, the overhead lights began to flicker. Fett quickened his pace, causing Din to stumble, bare toes scraping on the uneven floor. There was a tension building in Fett's shoulders that betrayed his uneasiness. Knowing that the hunter did not readily display his emotions, Din could tell that there was something very wrong. Although Fett did not berate Din for slowing them down, his movements became sharp and almost impatient, as if Din's hesitation was putting them in some kind of danger. Without fully understanding why or what was going on, Din felt ashamed.

When they finally arrived in the receiving room, Fett promptly dropped Din onto one of the low benches. He crashed into a pile of beskar, the impact lancing through his body. Before he could question what was going on, he found himself being manhandled into his _kute_ suit. Stiff and confused, his body did not readily comply as Fett forcefully shoved his feet through the trouser cuffs. Fett managed to get one of Din's feet through and was contending with the second when he snapped, seizing Din's jaw in his gloved fist. The leather was coarse and hot against his skin.

“ _Ke gev akaani! [Order: Stop fighting!]-_ We need to leave _now_.”

A low reverberation shook the walls, filling the room with a fine haze of crushed rock. The situation was worse than Din had initially thought. He did not wait for further instruction. He dressed with the haphazard urgency of a man on a sinking ship, desperate to grab hold of anything he needed to survive. With Fett's assistance, he pieced his armour together, wincing as the straps were fastened so tightly they dug through the fabric of his suit. The greaves and vambraces were lodged unevenly over the metal cuffs still locked around his wrists and ankles. Fett had made no move to release them and Din did not ask. Time was ticking with each strobe of the overhead lights. Din crammed his bare feet into his boots, holding back his surprise when Fett began arming him, snapping a blaster to his hip next to the saber and shoving the spear back into his hands. He searched for some explanation, but it was impossible to read his captor's intentions behind the visor.

His own helmet was missing, left where Fett had chucked it on the rotunda floor. As if to accentuate the perilousness of their situation, the lights flickered once more before shutting off completely, plunging them into darkness. Fett cursed fiercely and stormed across the room. Din was left blind and alone, eyes clouding around the edges as they struggled to adjust to the pitch. Underground, there was no natural light to bank on. All he had was his memory of the layout- a disheartening thought. Even with his sight intact, the place was a labyrinth. From where Fett had gone, he could hear a clank of metal and the screech of a door being manually released. He took an unsteady breath, part of him wanting to wait for direction while another part urged him to run while he still could.

Doubt was strong in his mind when something came for him in the dark. Din lashed out reflexively, the shrill ring of beskar echoing through the room. He felt the sting on his cheek before he realized he'd been slapped.

“ _Utreekov! [Idiot!]_ What did I tell you?” Fett growled. Everything came into sharp, sepia focus when the helmet was fitted over Din's head. “ _K'olar [Order: Come here]_ , as much as I wanted to see you crawl, I'm going to need you to walk. We have a ways to go.”

Din flushed at the remark, feeling like a child as the hunter adjusted the spear in his hand, ensuring Din was gripping it tightly and that the blunt end was firm against the floor. Even fully armoured and armed, he found himself ceding control. He allowed Fett to shoulder his arm over his neck to take his weight. Propped between the man's body and the makeshift crutch, Din felt a steady pulse of adrenaline as he was led out of the quarters and into the depths of the palace.

The power had been cut to the entire complex. Without even a back-up generator to keep a few light-strips lit, the hallways were entirely swathed in darkness. Through his visor Din could see telltale signs of trouble, each turn revealing more destruction as they dodged chunks of rubble. Among the rock there were crushed droid carcasses, the circuits sparking firefly flashes from gouged innards. One fired at them as they rounded a bend, but Fett dispatched it with a single shot of his blaster. All around them, there was a thick substance streaked on the floor and spattered up the walls. Din lost traction when he stepped in a pool of it that had collected in a recess in the tile, slipping on the slick stone.

Fett caught him before he hit the ground. “What happened here?” Din demanded. Mere days ago, these hallways were unblemished and now everywhere he looked brought with it a new horror. He scanned the piles of crumbled rock, the droid scraps, the discarded weapons, the blood. There were no bodies. “Where is everyone?”

“ _K'uur, [Order: Silence]”_ Fett hissed.

Din wanted to pinch himself awake from this living nightmare. His arm stiffened around Fett's neck, seeking security. In the distance, there was thunder. Beneath their feet, the ground quaked.

By the time Din could see daylight, he was no longer able to keep pace with Fett. The hunter was dragging him like a rag-doll across the hangar bay and towards the docked patrol ship, blaster at the ready. Din couldn't make sense of what he had witnessed. Had he done something to make this happen? Had he lost so much control that his dreams had started seeping into reality? The logical part of his brain told him that this was impossible, that he had been locked away from whatever had taken place, but it didn't stop the monster inside him from nurturing that deep-seeded guilt.

He slumped in the co-pilot seat that Fett strapped him into, watching the walls spin as the ship powered up. Compared to the _Crest_ the thing was a technical marvel. It was modded to the brim, sensor readouts and panelling so dense with controls that Din could only guess at what half them might do. The Jawas would have a field day if they managed to get their tiny claws on it. However, despite its complexities, Fett made piloting the craft look like old hat, not even bothering to glance down as he took off and charted a course. Din tried to examine the readout, but it was blocked by Fett's frame. The cockpit was tight, evidently designed for one pilot despite the additional seat. “Where are we going?”

Fett did not respond, instead removing his helmet and setting it down. The bounty hunter's jaw was clenched, the scars on his face pulled into vicious silver slashes. Without seeing his expression, Din could tell that he was furious. Din shifted, constricted by the straps surrounding his body and stifled by the heat creeping over his skin. They had been so rushed that he had been stuck in two layers of clothes. Now he was sweltering under his armour, heart pounding.

Din unclasped the harness, muffling the snap under his glove. His better judgment told him not to push his luck by questioning further, to not try the patience of a mercenary on the verge of exploding, but he needed to know where they were headed. Although he cared little for his ship back on Tatooine- piece of trash that it was- being deprived of his own means of conveyance added to a teetering pile of control he had lost. At the very least he needed to know what direction he was being taken. He leaned out of his chair, scanning the nav screen. They were headed deeper into the outer rim.

“Do not test me, _ad'ika,_ ” Fett warned. “I'm in no mood to be kind. _Ke shebe. [Order: Sit down.]”_

To hell with better judgment. He clenched his hands in his lap, trying to quell the shaking. Irrationally he was convinced that he was somehow at fault, even if it was just the melancholic monster inside tearing him to pieces. Questions and doubts cycled through his mind, stoking his fear. He felt sick. Smears of blackish red wound their way up his legs like poisonous vines, dragging him back to the aftermath of the slaughter. Impulsively, he pushed. “Tell me where we're going.”

The look Fett gave him could have iced a desert. “ _Ke jorhaa'i ulyc [Order: Watch your words. (Literal) Speak carefully.]_ You forget your place.”

As fearful as he was, there was some vindication in re-directing Fett's anger. Being the focus of his attention was exhilarating. Din's words caught in the raw chasm of his throat, cracking.“Just tell me.”

“ _Ke ceta. [Order: Kneel.]_ Get on the floor. _Now.”_ As Fett rose from the pilot's seat, Din felt as if he had been shoved against a wall. In the confined space of the cockpit, there was nowhere to run, no way to avoid the wrath of this man who had so brutally beaten him. Would he do it again? Din shrank. Behind Fett's eyes, all he could see was cold fury, and it froze him on the spot.

Din was yanked off his chair and thrown to the ground, striking the floor with a deafening clang. Heart pounding, he scrambled to his knees, trying to correct his previous hesitation. But he knew it was too late. Fett knocked away his hands from where he had pulled them protectively to his body, proceeding to rip the weapons from his belt and toss them aside.

“I'm sorry! I just- _Please_ \- _Gedet'ye, alor. Ni-[Please, sir. I-]”_ Din didn't get a chance to finish. Fett had grabbed him by the scruff and was pulling him towards the back of the ship. The collar of his suit constricted tightly around his neck and Din clawed at it, desperate to ease the pressure. He crawled after his captor, knees skidding on the metal floor.

He was tossed down the hatch, stomach somersaulting as the wall suddenly became the floor. The shifting interior and sudden change in gravity caught him off-guard and he slammed against it with a gasp. It was impossible to tell up from down when Fett caught him again and proceeded to tug him further into the belly of the patrol craft. They passed an array of coffin-like bunks, notorious in their line of work for prisoner capture and incapacitation, and Din felt a twinge of panic. He had seen what happened to someone when they were put inside one- carbon freezing was more humane. Even as he fought to breathe, it was a relief when Fett did not stop.

Just beyond the cages, there was another hatch. Din was forced through and into a small cabin, just barely big enough for a single bunk and standard pilot's kit. Fett flung him to the floor, stepping in behind him and slamming the door shut. Din remained on his hands and knees, not daring to look up at Fett. His shoulders sagged, head bowing low. It felt like his body had caved in, overburdened with shame and excitement.

“ _Ni ceta, alor. [I'm sorry, sir.]”_ Din croaked.

Fett made no acknowledgement of his words. As Din waited, the air seemed to thicken, entrapping him with each drowning breath. When he couldn't stand the silence anymore, Din changed tack. “What do you want me to do? _Rejorhaa'i, alor. [Tell me, sir.]”_

“Have you really forgotten so soon?” The hunter's tone made Din blanch, blood running cold. He risked a glance up at Fett and found his gaze trapped there. Fett spoke slowly, as if explaining to a child, each syllable barbed with displeasure. “I want you to be obedient. I want you to be respectful. At all times. _Tion tatugi ra gar survari? [Should I repeat or do you understand?]”_

“ _Ni suvari, alor. [I understand, sir.]”_

“ _Nayc. [No.]_ I don't think you do. But you will. Tell me what you deserve for speaking to me so disrespectfully.”

Din's heart hammered in his chest. He was taken off-guard by this order to define his own punishment. It was a cruel request, one that Din was certain was impossible to answer correctly. As it was, he was torn between what he wanted and what Fett might think he deserved. He was learning that the hunter had a penchant for semantics, and this was sure to be no exception. He decided to try his luck. “ _Ven vore gar ukoro mayen. [I will accept anything you decide.]”_

“That's not good enough, _ad'ika._ I know you will accept. _Ke jorhaa'i jiila. [Order: Tell me now.]_ What do you _deserve_?”

“ _Cuyi ru'gratii, alor. [To be punished, sir.]”_ Din's face darkened, recalling the stinging strike of the whip on his palms that had initiated their erratic relationship, as well as the way he had been broken under the cane. He could see no such implements here. And yet he craved it. “Will you hit me?”

“ _Ret [Perhaps]_. But I think you might enjoy it too much.” Fett moved to open the small metal cabinet beside the bed, expression turned contemplating. From where he knelt, Din could not see what it contained. “ _Ke te'habi be beskar'gam. [Order: Remove your armour.]”_

Din obeyed. He removed each piece, fastidiously placing the protective plates in a pile beside him. When this had been asked of him before, all he had felt was embarrassment. He wouldn't have imagined a time when he wouldn't need to be on the brink of death to reveal himself. Now, he felt almost eager. He stripped down to the clothes that Fett had given him, folding up his thick undersuit and placing it next to the pile. Finally, he removed his helmet, setting it down with the rest.

“ _Jate. [Good.]_ Come now, _ad'ika_. I want you over my knee.” Fett took a seat on the bunk. From the cabinet, he had withdrawn two items. One was a box, which he put aside at the end of the bed, and other was a plain leather belt. This, he laid out next to him.

Did Fett really intend to spank him like an insolent child? Din reddened at the thought. He rose uncertainly from his knees, casting his eyes downwards as if doing so would save him from acknowledging it. He positioned himself over the hunter's lap, skin tingling when Fett's hand curled around the back of his neck, guiding him into place.

“ _Ori'jate, ad'ika. [Very good, little one.]_ ” Fett stroked a hand down Din's back, sending a shiver down his spine. Din gritted his teeth, unable to stop his body from twitching when Fett kneaded through the fabric of his trousers and into the bruised flesh beneath. “You are already so raw and yet still you ask for this. You really do want to please me, don't you?”

Din swallowed, his building apprehension stealing his words.

“Very well. This is what I have decided- you will show me what you think you deserve as penance. I will strike you with my hand. When you feel you have been sufficiently punished, you will ask me to stop. If I agree with your judgment, we will finish with one lash of the belt. If I do not, then you will be lashed until I am satisfied. _Tayli'bac? [Understood?]_ I need to hear you say it. _”_

The grip on the back of his neck tightened slightly, thumb firm over his quickening pulse. “ _Elek, alor. [Yes, sir.]”_ Din confirmed.

“ _Jate. [Good.]”_ Fett picked up the belt and brought it up to Din's lips. “ _Ke tengaana. [Order: Open.]_ You'll drop it when you're ready for it.”

Din squirmed, warmth pooling inside his stomach as he accepted the belt into his mouth. It was folded in half, the leather thick between his clenched teeth. Somewhere in his journey from the cockpit to this prostrate position, the gnawing emptiness had left him, replaced with a mixture of trepidation and unhinged desire. He tensed when the loose trousers were pulled over his hips, exposing his contused skin. Din closed his eyes and buried his face into his folded arms, acutely aware of Fett's touch. One hand had enclosed over the back of his neck, holding him firm, while the other settled on his backside as if laying claim to the place it would strike.

As he waited, Din trembled. He tried to anticipate what it might feel like to be struck when he was already so painfully sore, but he could not. He did not have long to imagine. When Fett landed the first blow, it was like he had taken a hot poker to his ass. It burned, sudden and sharp before spreading outwards from the point of contact. Din bit down on the belt but found that it did little to muffle his cry. He writhed when Fett dug the tips of his fingers into the darkened welts on his skin, pushing them in deeper as his body tried to pull away. Fett swatted him reproachfully before landing another stern strike.

“Now, now, _ad'ika_ , be still,” Fett chided, finding a particularly tender spot and dragging his nails across it. Din grunted behind the gag. His body was not his own; he willed it not to move and yet it twisted and shook beneath Fett's hands. Every strike was pure torture, the pain stoking the fire in his gut that made him crave more. He was shamefully hard against Fett's leg, rutting, seeking friction, but Fett acted as if he were unaware. The hunter took his time, feeling along the skin with painful precision until there wasn't a single spot left unblemished. With each spank, Din became more and more undone until he was crying as freely as a chastened child.

As the punishment progressed, the misery of his predicament started to become apparent. Din was not sure how much more he could handle. He was at his limit, body alight with agony, and yet it was impossible for him to know if Fett would deem it sufficient. Could he really endure the strap on top of it all? He sobbed, coming apart as he curled over Fett's lap.

Completely lost in the myriad sensations, he had not counted how many times he had been struck. It could have been a handful, it could have been dozens. All he knew was that he was undone. He lasted one more hit before he dropped the belt. “ _Gev. [Stop.]”_ he cried. “ _Please. Gedet'ye, alor. [Please, sir.]”_

“You've had enough?” Fett collected the belt from where Din had dropped it. He tilted Din's face upwards with the blunt, folded end, examining his face.

Din was a glistening mess of tears and drool. He snuffled, nodding and swallowing around the lump in his throat. “ _'Lek, alor. [Yes, sir.]”_

“ _Jate. [Good.]”_ Fett let Din's face fall. The leather creaked as the hunter wound the end around his gloved fist. For a moment, Din considered pleading, considered telling Fett that _no_ it was not enough. That he would beg him to continue until he was pleased, until he did not need to face the severity of the strap. He opened his mouth, searching for the words...

The belt cracked against Din's ravaged skin, a sharp consonant clouting his ears before the anguish surged through his body. Din howled.

He wrapped his arms around his head, shrinking into a protective ball as he wept and waited. When the next lash did not land, Din peeked warily over the crook of his arm. His body was buzzing as if filled with static, hot and cold and prickling where Fett stroked a hand down his back. Din shuddered. What did it mean that he still wanted that touch after it had been so intent on hurting him? He shifted, trying to relieve the pressure on his cock where it was wedged firm and hard against the plating on the hunter's thigh. Fett did not move for some time, allowing Din to remain curled as he ran his fingers possessively over his body.

Eventually, Din found himself pulled upwards on Fett's lap, unsure whether he had clawed his way there or if the hunter had helped him. His fingertips clung to his captor's chest, burrowing into the creases of his armour as if it would bring him closer to the skin beneath. He continued to cry, unable to stop the stream of tears no matter how hard he tried to hold them back. They fell freely, beading and falling in rivulets down the muted Mandalorian steel. When the armour stirred, Fett moving as if to rise, Din gripped tighter, suddenly and intensely fearful of being left alone. The emptiness would return, he was sure of it. And he couldn't bear to face it by himself.

“Please...” he breathed. “Please stay.”

Fett paused, body stiffening beneath him. Din glanced up, abashed and afraid that he may have crossed a line. The bounty hunter was difficult to read at the best of times, helmet or no helmet. The scars dragged over his skin, giving him an angry, pinched expression that did not match his actions as he gathered Din close and settled further back on the bunk.

“Do you still want to know where we're going, _ad'ika_?” Fett asked, rubbing his thumb over the nape of Din's neck.

It shouldn't have mattered anymore. With Fett leading him, Din knew exactly what direction he was going. Still, the need lingered. “ _Elek, alor. [Yes, sir.]_ ”

“Alright, then. But only because you cried so prettily for me.” Din flushed darkly as he was forced to meet Fett's eyes. He was still unable to quell his tears, humiliated that his failing was giving Fett such satisfaction. Fett ran a finger along Din's jaw, catching the stream. “Tell me, _ad'ika_ , have you been to Bespin?”

_Bespin?_ Were they really going to the Cloud City? Home of cheats, tourists, and ' _reformed_ ' slavers? The place that was so fueled by exploitation, it was embedded in its very walls?

He was a bounty hunter- of course he had been to Bespin- and he never wanted to go back.


End file.
